


Joy of Tournaments

by Frankincense and Dunmyrrh (rawrawrawr)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A metric ton of hand-holding, Alternate Universe - High School, Hanzo is competitive, Implied Reaper76, M/M, McHanzo Week, Sexual Humor, Speech and Debate shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8954713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrawrawr/pseuds/Frankincense%20and%20Dunmyrrh
Summary: Between strenuous coursework, extracurricular activities, and trying to live up to his father’s expectations, Hanzo doesn’t have a lot of patience when it comes to his new debate partner’s laid-back attitude.  While he might have joined Overwatch Academy’s Forensics team for the sake of a pretty note on his college applications, the experience becomes less about setting himself up for success and more about the unexpected bond forged between himself and Jesse McCree in the arena of competitive public speaking.
For McHanzo Week 2016, days Four ("Role Reversal") and Five ("Young Love").





	

**Author's Note:**

> AKA the adventures of Hanzo “I’m Exhausted Don’t Look at Me” Shimada and Jesse “I’m Just Happy to Be Here” McCree.
> 
> Inspired mostly by my own experiences on the Speech and Debate circuit while I was in high school. If this doesn’t look familiar to you, we probably had very different state/district rules. Either that or I just made things up to fill the gaps in my (admittedly terrible) memory.
> 
> And of course, a big thank you to [ everylastbird ](http://everylastbird.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr for agreeing to beta read this mess, and generally allowing me to pester her with my ideas for two weeks.

Hanzo decides that he dislikes his partner before they even meet.

It is the first day of Forensics practice this year, and Hanzo is already dreading the upcoming competitive season.  Mr. Morrison e-mailed him two weeks ago to let him know that they were in ‘dire need of a new Policy team,’ and as a Lincoln-Douglas debater, Hanzo conveniently came with no concerns over breaking up a working team dynamic by taking him away from his own event.

He guesses it must also have to do with his lack of seniority – if Hanzo were not a sophomore, he would have been left to his own devices.

Logically, the decision makes sense.  But it does not stop the creeping bitterness that tightens his throat.  He began this year with the motivation of making it back to Nationals.  Foolishly, he thought Morrison would understand that.

Maybe it isn’t fair of him, to dislike someone before giving them a chance.  But it was hardly fair of their coach to put him against his will in an event he has no interest in competing in.  This year would surely be a stain on his record – rather than hone the skills he gained last year, he would have to spend the rest of the season getting used to a new format, and be dragged down by a team dynamic that he had specifically chosen to avoid when he joined the team in the first place.

If he has to suffer, he refuses to do it alone.

He has done the math in his head, so to speak.  Winston and Lena are a package deal in Public Forum; Amélie and Satya round out that event with their exceptionally brutal cross-examinations.  Mako, Mei and Zarya are the three senior members of the team in Lincoln-Douglas, and thus exempt from conscription.

Not that seniority should matter, Hanzo thinks, unless it is also counted in tandem with skill.  Neither of his three colleagues qualified for Nationals last year.  Hanzo, on the other hand, did.  And he was unlikely to do so again, if his calculations prove correct.

The most likely scenario is that he will be paired up with a freshman, someone that he will have to waste time explaining the finer points of the event to.  If he is a lucky man (and Hanzo doubts he can call himself lucky, after this turn of events), he will be paired with either Zarya or Mei, who are at least audible.  Mako has a horrible habit of mumbling, as though eternally speaking into some mouthpiece.  He almost – _almost_ – prefers his luck running dry.

Truth be told, Hanzo does not know _what_ to expect when Morrison calls him over to his desk.

He certainly was not expecting his coach to gesture at the tawny-skinned teen standing a little way off.  “Hanzo, this is your partner, Jesse McCree.”

McCree smiles broadly, nut-brown eyes winking in the fluorescent lights overhead.  “Nice to meet you, Hanzo.”  He offers a hand.

Hanzo narrows his eyes at it.

McCree’s smile falters, just a bit.  He retracts the handshake awkwardly, turning to look at Mr. Morrison for some sort of answer to Hanzo’s puzzling behavior.  When Morrison does not respond, he clears his throat.  “Okay, no handshakes.  Gotcha, partner.”

He shifts the full force of his glower to their coach, gesticulating a bit more wildly than is socially polite at his so-called ‘partner.’  “How, exactly, is a _speech newbie_ the best you can do?”

Hanzo remembers McCree from try-outs.  How could he forget someone that unironically wears a cowboy hat?  While the freshman is good enough to get commendations from Jamison, even to be hand-picked for Humorous Interpretation by the team’s speech coach, he is no debater.  A good voice and a talent for acting like a clown does not prepare McCree for the dedication and research it takes to prepare for cross-examinations and delivery of properly-crafted constructives.  What would McCree know about solvencies, or flows?

“Hanzo,” Morrison says, with just an edge of warning to it, “I picked Jesse because he’s the fastest talker we auditioned.  He’ll be great at spreading.”

_Spreading._   If there was one thing about Policy that he disliked the most, it was the spreading.  Hanzo never understood why anyone who was even somewhat of a competent debater would ever have to speak so quickly if they could simply make a decent argument.  Unfortunately, every Policy team on the circuit was using the tactic.  Hanzo could deliver a solid speech, but not if he had to push four hundred words a minute.

McCree snorts inelegantly, a snicker underlining his crude attempt at humor.  “Oh, yeah.  I’m great at spreading.”

The glare Hanzo aims at Morrison could kill.  He gestures widely, palm flat as it cuts through the air, pointed accusingly at the freshman next to him.  “Are you _serious?_ ”

To his credit, Morrison looks duly admonished.  Or perhaps embarrassed is a better word for the scarlet flush working its way across his cheekbones.  “Jesse!”

McCree holds his hands up in apology, but he looks more pleased with himself than anything.

Hanzo grits his teeth against the swiftly mounting urge to punch him.  “How did you even get Reyes to agree to hand him over?”

“It wasn’t easy.”  A grimace pushes Morrison’s thick brows closer together, as though recalling the no-doubt heated argument brings him physical pain.  “I didn’t have to sell my soul, but it was a very close thing, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Can you give him back?”

“ _Hey!_ ”  Out of the corner of his eye, he can see McCree pouting.  Hanzo ignores him.

“I am _not_ going to _give him back_ , Hanzo,” Morrison says, eyes narrowed.  “I know how much this team means to you, so I’m sure you can make a small sacrifice like switching your event.”

Hanzo huffs.  “If this team’s success meant anything to you, I would still be in L-D.”

He knows that he has crossed a line when Morrison’s warning glare turns fierce.  “That is _enough_ , Shimada!”  Their coach’s voice has grown hard and authoritative, sternness winning out over patience.  The entire room, previously filled with the chatter of a productive practice, falls dangerously silent.  Hanzo does his best to ignore the pressure of their not-so-surreptitious glances, no doubt trying to figure out what it was that got their usually even-tempered coach to raise his voice.  McCree appears to find the ceiling more interesting.  “If it bothers you this much, then you’re welcome to quit.  But if you stay, you are going to be in the event I tell you to compete in, with the partner I assigned you!”

Swallowing is difficult when he finds his throat so suddenly dry.  It is unfair of coach Morrison to put him in this position – he _knows_ how much the team means to Hanzo.  This is hardly an ultimatum.  If anything, it is a reminder that Hanzo is consigned to the team.  He barely suppresses the shudder that runs up his spine when he thinks about the disappointment on his father’s face if he ever found out that Hanzo had quit.

It is far easier to give in when he does not have to look Morrison in the eye.  “No.  I’ll…stay.”

When he does risk a glance at Morrison, the blond looks decidedly relieved.  It isn’t much, but Hanzo recovers a bit of his pride, to know that his coach would have been unhappy to see him walk away.  “Glad to hear it.”  He glances over at McCree.  “Why don’t you two go run through some drills?”

“Yes, sir.”  He does not look over his shoulder, merely gestures for McCree to follow.

Hanzo leads him over to a cluster of unoccupied desks, where he left his school bag when he first arrived at practice.  Rifling through it with intent, he begins prodding for information.  “We have a lot of work to do, so I hope you’re prepared to stay after for a few hours.”

McCree’s scoff is so enriched with character that he doesn’t even have to see it to know that the freshman is balking.  “A few _hours?_ ”

He looks up, then, a silent challenge in his glower.

The suddenness with which Hanzo whipped his head up appears to startle him, as he takes a step back, nearly stumbling over a desk chair in the process.  To his credit, he recovers swiftly.  “I meant…sure thing, partner.”

“Hn,” Hanzo sneers, bristling at the reminder that this… _cowboy_ is his _partner_ for the rest of the year.  Perhaps, even, for the rest of his career.  He returns to the task at hand, shimmying a stack of papers out of its designated folder.  The way he cradles it implies its importance – a mock-up of an affirmative case, the product of weeks of research and planning.  Not even halfway to his liking, but it will do.  For now.

He stands up, looking Jesse over searchingly.

McCree does not fidget, exactly.  He looks uncomfortable under Hanzo’s scrutiny, but there is a certain stillness to his posture, back straight and shoulders out.  It is as though he has something to prove.

_Well,_ Hanzo thinks with a smirk, _let him prove it._

“I want you to read this.”  He thrusts the papers at McCree’s chest, looking satisfied when he fumbles with them.  “Spread for me.”

Hanzo realizes his mistake too late.

McCree’s lips curl into a sly grin.  “My word, Hanzo!  This is so sudden—”

Hanzo tries to accept the fact that he is never going back to Nationals again.

 

* * *

 

“Again.”

“Beginning – _watermelon_ – with – _watermelon_ – advantage – _watermelon_ – one – _watermelon_ —” McCree lets out a long, pathetic groan as he flops backward, his body making a soft _thump_ when it collides with the hotel bed.  There is the unmistakable sound of papers being thrown aside just behind it.  “Oh, screw this!”

It is the night before their first big circuit tournament, and Hanzo is admittedly nervous.  The team had arrived not but two hours ago at the hotel.  From the moment they set their luggage down in their assigned room, he had whipped out their materials from the bins – which McCree had covered in various tacky stickers, much to Hanzo’s continued annoyance – and insisted that they prepare for tomorrow morning.

Perhaps it is a bit cruel of him, he thinks, to make McCree run verbal drills for as long as he has.  Anyone else on the team would think so, given their current track record.  But a few measly first place ribbons from the local scrimmages mean nothing in comparison to the cutthroat competition awaiting them.  Nothing – not even Jesse’s depressing lack of work ethic – is going to get in the way of him breaking through to the finals.

Hanzo swivels the desk chair around to face his partner, fixing him with a hateful leer at the interruption from his own preparations.  “You had better pick that up, McCree,” he spits, pointing at the discarded papers lying in the empty space between the two full-sized beds.

McCree huffs as he obeys, but not before returning the glower with one of his own.  His bangs obscure his face when he leans over the bed, reaching.  “I’m just saying, this is complete bullshit.  I bet even _Satya_ isn’t going over her case right now!”

“I know for a fact that Satya and Amélie planned on doing some revisions when we arrived.  The most crucial thing you missed, however,” he snaps, teeth grit in irritation, “is that _they_ aren’t new to their event or their partnership.  _We_ are.  Keep reading!”

Satisfied that the freshman is doing as told, Hanzo turns back to his own studies.  There are several pieces of evidence he expected to see run by his opponents.  For whatever reason, teams at these sorts of invitationals run the strangest arguments.  He has been familiarizing himself with the possibilities over the last week and a half in the hopes of avoiding even the slightest chance of being caught off-guard.

He can practically hear McCree pouting as the other teen shifts, sitting back against the headboard.  What he doesn’t hear is the resumption of his verbal drills.  Instead, he grouses, “You’re one cruel mistress.”

Hanzo whirls around, ponytail whipping behind his back to settle on his opposite shoulder.  It is satisfying, how McCree jumps just a tad when facing down Hanzo’s glare.  “That didn’t sound like our 1AC to me.”  There is a hint of warning in the way he says it, voice dangerously low.

The satisfaction wears off quickly when McCree fixes him with his own stubborn brand of glare, an answering call to Hanzo’s bluff.  “C’mon, Hanzo!  I’m not gonna have a voice at all tomorrow, if you get your way!”

At least he wouldn’t have to put up with McCree’s incessant chattering.  “Nonsense.  You have all night to recover,” he argues.  “When you sleep.”

McCree tips his head back and growls his frustrations at the popcorn-stucco ceiling.  “I’m tellin’ ya, no one else is this obsessive!  You’re gonna kill me if you keep at it!”

“I’m very sorry that I want us to succeed tomorrow,” Hanzo sniffs, tone anything but apologetic.

“That’s not it.”  McCree returns his attention to his partner, frowning.  He looks like he is trying very hard to puzzle something out.  “No one else on the team spends _this much time_ focusing on their cases.  It’s like…do you ever take the time to just _relax_?”

Hanzo fidgets, suddenly nervous under the intensity of McCree’s focus.  He looks away.  A dropped point, to be sure.  “If the others lose, it is because they made the mistake of treating these events like a party.”

“Speaking of which…”  Hanzo looks up at the sudden cheer in his partner’s voice, finding the freshman grinning at him.  “Lena’s got everyone hanging out in her room.”

_We should go!_   Being the unspoken implication lingering in the air.

He huffs.  They had better not keep him up.  “I have Pre-Calc homework.”

“You can finish that on the drive back.”  It is a good argument.  Hanzo despises him for it.

“I have to review these.”

McCree scoffs at the scattered papers.  Or, perhaps, at the flimsy attempt at a rebuttal.  “What, another five times?  I’m tellin’ you, Hanzo, there’s such a thing as _too much_ preparation.”

“I do not like parties.”  This is no lie, but a preference could hardly count as an argument in any proper debate.

“We don’t have to hang out with everyone,” McCree is quick to assure him.  “We could go for a walk, or just hang out in here!”

Hanzo opens his mouth to retort, only to find that he has nothing to say.  He presses his lips together in a firm line and opts for stony silence.  If he is lucky, McCree will simply leave, and Hanzo can attempt to piece together his dignity by burying himself in work.  It would be more productive than whatever it is the rest of the team is doing down the hall.

As though sensing that Hanzo has been left open for a finishing blow, McCree goes in for the kill.  “C’mon,” he wheedles, “you’re just gonna burn yourself out like this.  What’s the harm in putting all this down for an hour or two?”

He narrows his eyes.  “Why do you not argue this much during cross-examination?”

McCree makes a noise, a sort of ‘ _ooh_ ,’ as though impressed by Hanzo’s sarcasm.  “Maybe I only rise to the challenge with a worthy opponent.”  He waggles his brows – an absolutely ridiculous display that might have made Hanzo laugh, were it not for his outstanding irritation with the teen.

Hanzo sighs.  He knows when he is beaten, and this is most certainly shaping up to be a resounding victory for his opponent.  At least he can think of this as some form of ‘team bonding,’ if he’s going to be forced away from doing anything truly constructive.  “What did you have in mind?”

The overenthusiastic fist pump is far too much, he thinks.  McCree never gets this excited when he manages to make a good counterpoint in round.

That is how Hanzo finds himself ‘chatting’ with his partner for the next three hours, feeling more as though he is participating in the most awkward back-and-forth interrogation it has ever been his displeasure to be a part of.  Hanzo has never much liked niceties, never cared for the superficiality of conversation.  He hates talking about his classes, dislikes being reminded of how much work he has left ahead of him.  Asking Hanzo questions about his personal life is a lot like pulling teeth.

“Got any family?”

Hanzo tries his best not to roll his eyes _too_ noticeably at the phrasing.  Of course he has family.  “My parents.  A younger brother, Genji.”  There are more back in Japan, he understands, but his father is very tight-lipped about it.  He wonders if by sheer force of will he could prevent McCree from asking for more details.  Settling on a more practical tactic, he deflects the question back to its originator.  “And yours?”

The shrug McCree responds with is casual on the surface, but he knows there is something else to it when the freshman’s gaze darts downward.  It is only for a moment, and yet Hanzo is convinced that he saw something almost…sad, in the way the brown darkens.  “Reyes is the only family I’ve got, as far as I’m concerned.”

That is, perhaps, the first interesting thing said between either of them.

He must look surprised, because McCree explains without prompting: “He adopted me a few years back.  Don’t really want to get into the details, if you don’t mind.”  Hanzo shakes his head.  He could understand that.  “I wanted to keep my name, though.  ‘Jesse Reyes’ doesn’t really roll off the tongue.”

“I did not mean to pry,” Hanzo says, more gently than he has spoken to McCree since they met.  “It’s just…”  He pauses, thinking of a polite way to phrase his thoughts.  “Mr. Reyes does not seem the fatherly sort.”

Coach Reyes was notoriously strict with his speech students.  From a debater’s perspective, he cut an imposing figure, always giving Mr. Morrison a hard time with recruits.  Hanzo heard that he was incredibly harsh with his comments on student ballots, to the degree that he made a newbie cry.  The veracity of the numerous rumors surrounding their speech coach, however, was doubtful.  Half of them he had overheard in conversation between Sombra and Amélie.  Hanzo had never been particularly trusting of anything that came out of Sombra’s mouth.

“Is that what you think?”  McCree shakes with poorly-controlled laughter.  It suits him more than the earlier downcast expression, Hanzo thinks.  “You just don’t know ‘em!  He’s always dealing with Morrison’s poaching—” he gestures to himself “—case in point, so he’s a little protective of the ones he gets to keep.  There’s not a thing he wouldn’t do for his kids.  I’ve seen ‘em leave in the middle of dinner just to give Jamie a ride home from the police station when his host family couldn’t pick ‘em up.”

He feels it would be inappropriate to ask why, exactly, Jamison would need to be picked up from a police station.  “Ah,” he says instead, quite astutely.

The conversation takes an immediate nose dive into awkward silence.  Hanzo contemplates his cuticles.  McCree seems content to tap his feet in an alternating rhythm against the edge of the bed.  This is precisely why he dislikes parties.  He never knows what to say.  Human interaction has no resolution he can research and plan responses to accordingly.

Hanzo is very near to excusing himself from the drawn-out lull in conversation when, blessedly, it is broken.

“Do you have any hobbies?” McCree ventures.  He looks almost regretful to ask at all.

No relief comes with the question.  Instead, he frowns.  _Does_ he have any hobbies?  He cannot say that he does, off the top of his head.  Most of Hanzo’s activities are the things his father suggested of him – footnotes for college applications, things to add a bit of distinctiveness and polish to an already outstanding résumé, to give him a leg up on any potential competitors.  It shouldn’t be this hard to find something that he likes to do, should it?

“I enjoy archery,” he settles.  It is not a lie.  Although his father picked the sport out for him, it is perhaps one of the few extracurriculars that Hanzo does not see as a chore.  The time he spends practicing on the range is one of the few moments of relaxation that he gets in his weekly schedule.

Fortunately, the response is enough to please McCree.  The freshman gets comically excited, eyes widening along with his toothy grin.  “That’s awesome!  Like, traditional or crossbow?”

Before long, he realizes that he has spent the better part of an hour answering McCree’s questions, inane or genuinely insightful.  He pushes the notion that he actually _enjoyed_ humoring his partner’s wild curiosity to the back of his mind, to be examined later.  When he finally lays down in bed, sleep comes blissfully easy.

 

They lose to their opponent in the final.

Hanzo finds that he cannot be too upset about getting second place, however, when he sees the way McCree’s triumphant grin seems to light up his entire face after Reyes congratulates them.  It does not keep him from blaming the loss on McCree’s inattention the night before, but it does soften the edges around the accusation.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo allows himself to stretch languidly as he steps out of the double doors on the side of the school van, easing the strain on his muscles after three hours on the road.  The van is not particularly crowded, given the relatively low count of speech competitors for the upcoming invitational, but he welcomes the relief that comes with the cooling midday air nonetheless.

McCree has already clambered out of the passenger’s side, standing near the entrance to the gas station where the handful of students have already begun to collect.  Hanzo tries not to let his irritation show with his partner as he walks the short distance to join them.  He doubts that they would have gotten anything substantial done, and it is not his place to dictate when McCree is permitted to spend more time with his legal guardian.  Although he does wish that McCree would take their upcoming competition more seriously.

Normally Hanzo prefers to ride with the other debaters in Mr. Morrison’s van, where talk is minimal, the studious silence filled by NPR.  McCree was insistent that they travel with Reyes this time around, to avoid spending more time in what he called ‘his own personal hell.’  While he was hesitant to break routine – and especially so when he learned that Jamie, notoriously loud, would be on the trip – he minded less when Lena pestered him about it, as well.  Besides, he figured McCree could use a little motivation.  They were about to hit the most intensive part of their season, and Hanzo needed him focused if there was to be any chance of collecting enough bids for the Tournament of Champions.

He has never understood why Lena would pass up an opportunity to share notes with Amélie (one of her favorite pastimes, although Hanzo could not say that Amélie felt quite the same way), even less so her motivations for abandoning her partner.  She and Winston were practically inseparable.

But, as with many things that have come about from his partnership with McCree, his understanding of the team dynamics is shifting.

“Where the hell are those guys?”

Lena scoffs, practically jogging in place where she stands next to Jamie.  “Morrison is _so slo-w!_ ”  She chirps, dragging out the vowel emphatically.  “I bet we’re a hundred miles ahead of ‘em!”

Reyes’s face screws up in displeasure.  “They’d better not be.  We’re already pushing it close with the check-in deadline at the hotel.”  He does not sound doubtful, however – more so irritated by the very suggestion.

“I’d better make sure they’re not lost.  You guys go on in.”  Mr. Reyes fishes his cellphone from his pocket, already searching through his list of contacts.  He looks up just long enough to fix the group with a stern glare.  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

As soon as he has turned away, Sombra rolls her eyes and leads the small pack through the station’s entrance.  McCree has just crossed the threshold when he turns back, as if sensing something amiss.  He raises a brow at Hanzo’s stationary position.  “You coming?”

Hanzo turns his gaze, briefly, at the interior of the gas station.  The floors look to be cracking, and certainly have not been washed in a number of days.  He guesses that the soles of his shoes would stick to whatever residue leaves the linoleum with a grimy sheen.  Though that may be a trick of the yellowish industrial lighting, which only serves to make his eyes strain at just a glance of the shelves lined with junk food.

He wrinkles his nose.  “No.”  Emphatic, voice slightly raw from the long van ride.  Over McCree’s shoulder, he can spy the wall-length refridgerators, tauntingly laden with all sorts of water bottles.

McCree shrugs easily at Hanzo’s refusal.  By now he is accustomed to his partner’s more refined tastes, and has ceased attempting to get Hanzo to ‘lighten up.’  “Suit yourself.”  He disappears inside, leaving Hanzo to stand alone outside and await the return of his teammates.

He fills the gnawing absence by watching Mr. Reyes, phone cradled against his shoulder, as he refills the van’s gas tank.

Hanzo is not left waiting for long.  McCree returns not but three minutes later with a small plastic bag, coming to a stop on Hanzo’s left.  He rifles about in it, withdrawing a bottle of water, which he tilts in Hanzo’s direction.

He looks at it, then at McCree, frowning.  “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” McCree explains, looking at Hanzo as though _he_ is the one that has done something strange.  “Thought you might be thirsty.”

“I have my own money,” Hanzo reminds him, brows drawn down into a characteristic scowl.  If he had wanted water, Hanzo would have gone in to purchase some himself.  He looks at the station, frowns a bit as he contemplates the distance between the cash register and the beverages.  Well.  He could stand to wait a bit longer.

McCree’s shrug is just as easy as the first.  “Then you can pay me back, if you’re so bent outta shape about it.”

This was no coincidence.  The realization comes to him like a jolt of electricity, the current running through every nerve in his body, the sensation perceived in but a fraction of a second.  McCree must have noticed that Hanzo’s voice had gone hoarse.  Usually Hanzo packed his own supplies for the road – for the express purpose of avoiding the need to enter seedy convenience stores, no less.  What he still could not figure out was _why_ McCree had bothered at all.

McCree shakes the bottle, the sound of sloshing water drawing Hanzo’s attention back to the conversation.  “You gonna take it or not?”

Their fingers brush together briefly when the bottle exchanges hands.

Curious, Hanzo checks the label, spinning the object over in his hands.  His favored brand, even.

_Clever_ , he thinks.  Always far more astute than most give him credit for.  McCree might be lazy, but he has a sharp set of eyes, and a lightning fast mind to match.  While he might not be the most seasoned debater, no one could say he was not worthy of praise.  Now if only Hanzo could get him to pay attention during practice…

Hanzo allows himself a brief smile for McCree’s thoughtfulness.  “Thank you.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” he says, almost bordering on modest deflection.  The wide smile defies his tone of voice.  Quite pleased with himself, surely.

The rest of the team returns in one group, chatting amicably as they push the doors open.  Jamie and Lena’s arms are laden with numerous bags filled with junk food.  Sombra shows a bit more restraint, carrying just one, hung around the crook of her elbow.  Through the thin plastic there is what appears to be a tall, metallic can.  Hanzo surmises that it is an energy drink, if anything.  Angela and Fareeha carry nothing out with them, unsurprisingly.

Before long he finds himself listening politely as Lena tells a rather involved story about her flight back to London last summer, and how she had coincidentally ended up in the seat right next to Amélie’s.  He should probably pay better attention, but Hanzo finds his focus divided when the thought occurs to him that he knows very little about any of his teammates.

Hanzo is brought back to focus by the sound of a loud scoff.  His attention immediately snaps to the source.

Sombra is watching Mr. Reyes at the pumps.  Their coach has his back pressed against the side of the school van, his head tipped back as he lets out a barely-audible laugh.  She gestures at him, flicking her wrist to draw attention to the way he grins so widely, careless of who might be watching.  Admittedly, it is out of place on the usually intimidating man’s face.  The way his smile slants, it almost softens the harshness from him, his facial scars practically invisible.  “Look at him!  He _never_ smiles like that.  I wonder what he and Mr. Morrison are talking about, _hm?_ ”  When Sombra says it, her tone of voice suggests that she does not have to use her imagination.

Lena frowns at her.  “What are you on about?”

“I thought it was obvious,” she replies loftily, crossing her arms beneath her bust.  “They hardly make a secret of it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo sees McCree fidget.

When Sombra receives no verbal response, she heaves out a put-upon sigh, though her salacious grin belies the poorly-concealed glee at having the opportunity to gossip.  “You really haven’t noticed?  Those two are totally sleeping together!”

Angela shakes her head, leaning over to mutter something at Fareeha.  The two Extemporaneous competitors look distinctly uncomfortable with the current line of topic, but seem content to hang back and comment on Sombra’s antics amongst themselves, chuckling at their private exchange.

Jamison lets out a guffaw that echoes under the industrial awning of the gas station.  “Oh, come off it, Sombra!  Those two are always at each other’s throats!  No way they could stand each other enough to be an item!”

“I didn’t say they were _dating_ , just that they’re having sex!”  She looks around her audience, nearly pouting when she notices that everyone seems rather unconvinced.  “Think about it!  The two are _always_ sharing a room when we go to hotels.  Why not just buy separate rooms if they don’t get along?”  She pauses for impact.  “Obviously because they’re sleeping together!”

Hanzo finds himself scoffing before he can stop himself.  “Your mistake is in assuming they must be… _involved_ …with each other simply because they share a hotel room.”  He crosses his arms, mimicking her self-assured posture.  “It is far more likely that they share a room in order to save money.  I would bet their room is the same as ours always are – two beds.”

Sombra narrows her eyes at him, a challenge in the way she leans closer.  “Can you prove that theory, Shimada?  I bet you’ve never even seen their rooms!”

He opens his mouth to respond that, no, he has not, but the burden of proof does not lie with him to prove her theory incorrect.  McCree cuts him off before he can explain to Sombra the finer points of debate, however.

“I have,” he says.  There is an edge to his voice that startles Hanzo, a rise to the challenge that Sombra issued.  He has the same stubborn look on his face that he wears in round when their opponents try to tear at their constructive during cross-examination.  “Two beds.  Just like Hanzo said.”

As though he has some reason to need confirmation, McCree looks to Hanzo.  He nods, if only to bring an end to this ridiculous conversation.  The hard line of McCree’s shoulders relaxes.

Sombra flicks her wrist dismissively at them, already turning to head back for the van.  “Oh, whatever!  Bunch of killjoys,” she mutters, flicking her multi-colored hair over her shoulder as she stalks off.  Jamie and Lena follow, heckling her all the while about the veracity of her stories.  Angela and Fareeha round out the back of the entourage, snickering to each other but otherwise content to hang back and watch.

Hanzo rolls his eyes and makes to follow, but stops when he feels himself being tugged back by his wrist.  He glares first at the grip on his arm, then travels the length of the holder’s arm to look up at McCree, brow raised in silent question.

“Uh, thanks.  For your help,” McCree starts, fidgeting awkwardly.  As if just noticing that he still holds Hanzo’s wrist, he releases the sophomore, taking a tentative step backward.  Expectant of Hanzo’s need for space, but only when it is not desired.

“You’re welcome?”  Hanzo does not see the point in this.  He looks over his shoulder at their van: Reyes with his stony-faced visage back in place, cellphone nowhere in sight, listening with polite interest to whatever Lena has to say.  Another of her long-winded stories, no doubt.  When he looks back, McCree’s posture has not changed.  He looks just as uncomfortable as before his uncharacteristically curt outburst.  “Truth be told, I’ve never cared for Sombra’s gossiping.  Half the time it’s completely baseless.”

McCree visibly flinches.  “She’s…actually right, this time.”

Hanzo blinks.

He takes a moment to reconsider the exchange.  Hanzo had simply assumed McCree grew defensive because the rumor was about his father.  This is apparently not common knowledge, or else Sombra would have asked McCree to verify her rumor.  Part of him is touched that McCree trusts him enough with the information to have given it freely.  The rest cannot figure out why McCree gave him that trust at all.

Because he is not sure of what to say, he asks, “Are you certain?”

The snort he gets in reply is dismissive.  “Sort of difficult not to be, when you share a wall with Reyes.”  His shudder speaks enough of the implicit angle.

Hanzo’s expression turns sour, which must amuse McCree, because the freshman laughs.  It is far too constricted a noise, in comparison to the cheerful bellow that can so easily fill a room.  There is something else he needs to say, then.

McCree clears his throat, scratching at the back of his neck.  “I’d, uh, appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this.  My dad likes to keep his personal affairs private.”  Another weak chuckle.  “I mean, he hasn’t even told _me_!”

“Who do you take me for?”  Hanzo rolls his eyes, taking mild offense at McCree’s implication that he would freely advertise someone else’s private life.  “I haven’t even told my parents I’m gay.”

The realization of what he said does not hit him until McCree’s eyes widen.  “…You are?”

Even then, it takes him a moment to recognize it.  A few seconds to think back over his last sentence, only then to realize his fatal error.

Hanzo feels his stomach drop to the depths of his soul, weighed down like a leaden balloon.  It seems to take his breath with it, as he finds none in his lungs.  His throat works around a thousand words that fumble for a way to take his admittance back, but the simple fact of the matter is that there is no way to repair the damage he has already done.  Now McCree _knows_.  It is no longer a secret held close to Hanzo’s chest, and now _anyone_ could find out—

But McCree’s hand on his shoulder is broad and warm, an anchor that brings him slowly back to focus.  When he finds himself capable of registering the minutiae of his partner’s expression, he realizes that McCree’s smile is merely reassuring.  “Hey, it’s alright.  I’m not exactly straight, myself.”  McCree has the audacity to wink, even.

How does he say it with such ease, without thinking?

Apparently the same way Hanzo does.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he admits, hating how meek it sounds in his mouth.

Behind them, the loud blaring scream of the van’s horn being honked – _three times in a row! Is that really necessary_ – startles them both.  Hanzo nearly jumps out of his skin.  Reyes gestures at them to hurry back, looking a bit cross, judging from his expression.

McCree bends down to pick the discarded water bottle off of the concrete.  When had Hanzo dropped it?  He presses it into Hanzo’s slackened grip, fingers warm as they brush together.  “Your secret’s safe with me, partner.”  Though he teases, something makes Hanzo believe that there is nothing but truth in the promise.  Perhaps, against his better judgment, he trusts McCree not to break it.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo is nervous.

They are standing around a crowded hallway, one wall lined with ceiling-high windows that overlook the grassy quad.  It is getting late, he can tell, golden rays falling lazily across the empty field as the sun begins to set upon the horizon.

None of which currently matters to him.  Right now, the only thing he can seem to focus on for longer than thirty seconds is the tangled knot of anxiety that sits just above his heart, pressing incessantly enough to make itself the center of attention.  It drives him to do many things – tap his foot impatiently, look elsewhere for distraction.  Anything to ease some of that edge he has been feeling since the conclusion of their last round.

He has never been a fan of waiting around for results.  It gives him too much time to second guess himself, to pick apart every little mistake from the rounds earlier on in the day.  Especially with so much at stake.

By some small miracle, Hanzo and his partner qualified for the National Tournament.  They have come a long way from where they were at the beginning of the year, although he cannot say that he has been any easier on Jesse for his continual disinterest in putting forth equal effort.  Rather than end up a detriment to their chances, however, Jesse has proven his value – and not just for his ability to speak in excess of four hundred words per minute.

Hanzo sneaks a glance at McCree, standing with his back pressed against the wall (never far away), catching sight of the usually dressed-down freshman in his charcoal gray suit.  He is immensely glad that Jesse does not even attempt to bring his tuxedo t-shirt and cardigan to tournaments any longer – the first time Hanzo caught him trying to wear it on the national circuit, he had nearly suffered a heart attack.  Lucky, Jesse was reasonable.  That time.

A smile tugs incessantly at the corners of his mouth when he spies the number penned in black ink on the back of Jesse’s hand: _279_.

McCree and Shimada.

Jesse insists that he write their code down in case one of them should forget, never mind _why_ he chooses his own hand every time rather than a slip of paper.  Maybe he thinks that he won’t accidentally lose his hand, though Hanzo has doubts after the incident at Glenbrooks with their evidence bins.

He looks up from his musings to find that Jesse is watching him, one of those odd smiles on his face, as though he is trying not to laugh.  “What’re you thinking about?”

Hanzo immediately screws his face into a scowl, embarrassed by allowing himself to be caught staring.  He crosses his arms.  “Where that Care Bears sticker of yours could have possibly disappeared to.”

It had become something of a game between them, to battle over how the bins were kept.  Hanzo would try to subtly remove the motley crew of stickers from them, while McCree would continually replace the ones that went ‘missing.’  Before long, something that had once irritated him became a source of amusement.  He could even appreciate the dedication that came with some of Jesse’s more strategic picks.  That Care Bears one had been a sore spot for him.  It never ceased to get a chuckle out of the freshman when he saw it glowing in the dark of their hotel rooms.  Well, until it had vanished quite suddenly one evening…

“Don’t play dumb with me, Shimada,” McCree begins, elbowing Hanzo playfully.  The force of the shove causes Hanzo to stumble a few steps.  His glower is only received with a dismissive chuckle from the other teen.  “I know you did away with poor, innocent Bedtime Bear!”

Despite himself, he cannot help but to chuckle.  Quietly, but the act occurs nonetheless.  Jesse seems pleased to have drawn it out of him.  “You have no proof!”

Jesse opens his mouth to reply, no doubt something humorous (by his standards, anyway) judging by the twist of his lips.  He finds himself interrupted when a sudden hush falls over the corridor crowded with Policy teams.  In near synchronization, they all turn to look in the same direction.

Down the hallway, a smartly-dressed woman strolls with purpose toward them.  Her heels clack loudly on the hard tile floors, expression schooled into careful neutrality.  What Hanzo notices is the manila envelope and the roll of tape she carries delicately in her hands, coming more into focus the closer she gets.

Now that he feels that familiar, electric pressure squeezing down on his heart once more, Hanzo realizes that he had very nearly gotten rid of it.

The tournament official acknowledges the competitors with a brief, informal nod of her head before swinging around to face the wall of glass.  It feels like an eternity passes between her working the envelope open and taping it up for their perusal.  All Hanzo can focus on is the weight of that slip of paper she removes from within, how it will determine whether he can continue on or if he must wait another year just for a chance at victory.  He has been thinking about that since his arrival, how much it would mean to return home with something to show for all of his hard work.  Would his father be proud enough to smile indulgently, the way Mr. Reyes does when he and Jesse earn accolades for their performance?

As soon as the official strides away, the competitors are crushing in to view the results of the first bout of out-rounds.  Hanzo is somewhere in the middle, working his way stubbornly toward the front, ignoring the indignant squawking of the other debaters.  Not that he can even hear them over the pounding of his heart in his ears.  He barely even registers that Jesse has followed him up, waylaid by some of the more insistent competition that were by all rights ahead of them.  Hanzo does not care – they can wait.  He needs to know.

Frantically, his eyes scan over the printed document, organized in neat cells by entry code, team name, high school, time and date of next round.  At the very top, it reads _Policy Octo-Finals_.  Good, the correct place to be, then.  Beneath are the eight qualifying teams.  He reads them in a matter of seconds, too fast for any of it to register at the forefront of his mind.

But a part of him must know, because he takes a step back regardless.  The motion causes him to bump into Jesse, who steadies him with a worried frown.  Someone has already pressed in to take his place.

_Not again,_ he thinks.  _Still not good enough._

“We’re not up there.”

Jesse’s frown deepens.  He has not looked so confused since the first time Hanzo attempted to explain the concept of flowing to him.  “Are you sure?”

Hanzo feels sick.  He barely manages to nod, so focused on trying to make sure the churning in his gut is not a warning for something else.

For some reason, Jesse does not seem convinced.  He leans forward as though to scan the document, trying to peek over the shoulder of the debater in front of them.  The broad hand resting on Hanzo’s shoulder is labelled _279_.  It burns through his blazer, turning his skin feverishly hot.  He hates it.  “Maybe you were reading too quickly—”

_“We’re not up there!”_

McCree steps back, eyes wide and wounded.  The fever-heat goes with him.

All Hanzo feels is the chill of dead air and the pressure of thirty-one accusative stares backing away from him.  He feels himself suffocating, sucking in breath but getting none, letting all of his air from his lungs puff out in short, staccato bursts that leave his head light and swimmy.

It takes no thought for him to rush out of the building, throwing the set of double doors to the abandoned quad wide open.  He finds himself stumbling up the bench of a wooden picnic table, cursing loudly and freely in his native tongue when he scrapes his knee in his bid to sit on the warped, uneven surface of the central table.  Hanzo lets himself continue to rant about his knee, about its unfairness, until he feels ridiculous.  “Idiot,” he mutters to himself, grimacing when he registers that the interior of his pant leg is sticking to the newly-raw skin of his knee.

The fresh air and lack of swarming bodies does him good.  He felt panicked, practically swallowed in that hallway and its stifling body heat.  Here, he is able to breathe evenly and collect his wild thoughts.

But they turn sour quickly.

Hanzo has always been exceptionally critical of himself.  It is no different now, contemplating their last round and what had gone wrong.  He had been working so hard to reach this moment, and just as it was last year, it was not enough.  Had he lacked focus, dedication, desire?  What did he need to change, to break this cycle?  Where could he improve?  Would it ever end, or was he doomed to come this far, only to watch on as others moved on ahead of him?

What will his father think, when he finds out?  He feels cold panic seize him at just the thought of his father’s disappointment, of all the backhanded comments he will be made to suffer for this failure.

Then he remembers the look on Jesse’s face when he had snapped.  He has never seen Jesse look so hurt, and _he_ had been the one to put it there.  The realization creeps steadily up his spine, until it mixes with the deep pool of regret and self-loathing that steadily churns his thoughts – a deceptively slow-moving maelstrom with a riptide that pulls him under every time he tries to break from its currents.

He does not know how long he sits like that, alone on the shaded picnic table, before McCree joins him.  Their shoulders brush together when Jesse sits next to him, close enough that he can feel the warmth underneath all those formal layers of cloth.  Hanzo cannot bring himself to look at his partner.

Neither says anything, for a while.  It is a heavy silence, a contest of wills, a waiting game to see who will break first.  Why did Jesse come out here at all?  Was he not furious at Hanzo for their loss?  Angry at all of the year’s punishing lead-up, only for this pitiful let-down?

“Y’know…”  Jesse begins, shifting beside him.  Hanzo looks up at him, puzzled by the smile that is turned his way.  It is soft, far too soft, stripping him bare.  “Just because we lost here doesn’t mean we can’t win some other time.”

“Stop.”  A ghost of a warning, all bare bones with no muscle behind it.

Jesse barrels on, unperturbed.  “Why?  It’s true!  We’ve got two more years, Hanzo!  There’s no reason we couldn’t come back the next time around and win it all.”

His eyes fill with wet, burning pressure.

Jesse had once called him cruel.  He was not wrong to do so.

He hates it.

Swallowing around the tight knot in his throat, Hanzo breaks the heavy silence, despises the way his voice quavers.  “…I understand, if you want to find a new partner for next year.”

A heavier silence falls over them.  Hanzo dares to peek at McCree.

He looks…confused, mostly; he stares ahead, looking over the quad as though trying to parse out some hidden meaning behind Hanzo’s words.  But he will find nothing in their bluntness.  When he turns his attention back to his partner, he seems to have come up with something, brown eyes filled with pity.  “Hanzo.  Is this about that little slip-up last round?”

Hanzo shuts his eyes against the memory, but it assaults him nonetheless – the humiliation of standing up for his rebuttal, only for no words to come out.  All he can think about is how idiotic he must have looked, just standing there at the podium, working his mouth around cotton-like silence for a solid thirty seconds.  When he had finally come back to his senses, it was too late.  The damage had been done.

Because of him, they had dropped a crucial point in their opponent’s case.

He feels helpless to stop the shaking of his shoulders as he admits, choking on the words, _“It’s all my fault!”_

And just like that, the pressure behind his eyes breaks, bringing with it loud, hiccupping sobs that wrack his whole body.  Tears stream in wet, inconsolable trails down his face, pausing not even for the wails that occasionally crawl their way up Hanzo’s throat.  He sucks in air desperately, pathetically shallow breaths that come in odd intervals, giving precedence to all sorts of embarrassing noises of distress.  Even if he tried, Hanzo doubts that he could stop now – it was an evening, it seemed, where everything was out of his control.

“Oh.  Oh, Hanzo.”

He startles as a pair of warm, solid arms wrap around his waist.  Jesse pulls him in against his body, turning enough that Hanzo is pressed into his chest.  The tears that had been spilling down his cheeks to collect in the steam-pressed collar of his shirt now create a wet stain on McCree’s shoulder.

Jesse’s hand rubs soothing circles on Hanzo’s upper back, a grounding sensation that helps him focus.  He can barely hear his partner over the cacophony of his own misery.  “Shh, shh…please don’t cry.  It’s alright, it’s okay.  Shh.”

“I—I just,” Hanzo tries, words lost around another bout of hiccups.  He nearly growls in frustration, but the noise is transfigured into a sob against his will.  Feeling more pathetic than he can properly express, he presses on, trying to explain what got him to this point of breakage.  “I—I worked s-so—so hard, and for _what?_   J-ju-just to—to fuck up when I was right there?”  His frustration sounds like a weak, disgraceful whine.  At least it gets muffled into Jesse’s blazer.

All this time, thinking that Jesse would be the one to ruin his chances, only for the saboteur to end up being himself.

The fingers making circles on his back seem to slow.  Jesse’s arms tighten almost protectively.  “God damn, Hanzo.”  His breathing is uneven now, too.  Shaken by something Hanzo must have said, though Hanzo cannot hazard a guess about its origins without sneaking a look at Jesse.  He doubts that he will be free of this embrace any time soon.  Strangely, he does not mind.  “I knew you were hard on yourself, but I didn’t think you would beat yourself up _this much_ over it.”

Hanzo thinks he should apologize.  It _is_ his fault that they were dropped before Octo-Finals.

McCree sighs, somehow leaning further into Hanzo’s side, despite them being as close as possible without one crawling into the other’s lap.  “Y’know, I was pretty surprised myself, when I didn’t see our names up there,” he admits.  His voice is so low, resonating deeply within Hanzo’s chest – a pleasant buzzing sensation that stills the rampant hiccupping sobs long enough for Hanzo to catch his breath.  “I guess it was kinda stupid, but I just thought that with you as my partner, it would be impossible to _not_ make it to the final.”

He does not sound upset at all.  In fact, Jesse sounds more wistful than he does anything.  The illogical response leaves Hanzo reeling, desperate for understanding.  “Y-You shou—should be angry with me,” he manages, tone accusatory.  “It’s in your r-rights.  Wh-why are you not furious?”

Jesse shakes his head, the motion causing his cheek to brush against the roots of Hanzo’s hair.  “Nah, I’m not mad at you.”

Hanzo pushes away enough to glare up at his partner, snarling.  His voice nearly breaks on a wet sob.  “You should be!”

“Not for an honest mistake, I shouldn’t.”  McCree’s voice is firm, but manages to be gentle all the same.  “Honestly?  I’m just happy we got this far.  A few years ago, I never thought I’d get an opportunity like this.”

Jesse said little of his time before being taken in by Mr. Reyes.  From what meager scraps he got, Hanzo could piece together enough of a picture to assume that it was a rather bleak start for such an amazing person.

“I never thought I’d meet someone as amazing as you.”

Hanzo can feel his chin quivering, fresh tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.  Jesse should not say such things.  He is not amazing, does not deserve any of his partner’s admiration.

McCree exhales when Hanzo begins crying again, looking away swiftly.  His eyes look a bit glassy, although it is hard to tell through the wet veil currently obscuring Hanzo’s vision.  “Ah, shit – you’re gonna make me cry, too.”

“I am sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize—”

Hanzo raises a hand to silence Jesse, using the other rub harshly under his eyes in a vain attempt to stem the flow of his crying.  At least he has control over his voice again.  “No, I need to say this.”  He looks down at his lap, not brave enough to watch Jesse’s reaction.  “I’ve been horrible to you all year.  Pushing you too hard, projecting my stress onto you, expecting you to behave like I do.  But you aren’t me, and it was wrong of me to treat you so poorly when I didn’t get what I wanted out of you.  So.  I apologize.  For everything.”

When he dares to look again, Jesse is smiling, as if he had been waiting for Hanzo to make eye contact.  “I forgive you.”

Jesse bumps their shoulders together playfully.

Tentatively, Hanzo risks a smile of his own.  It is lopsided and too shaky, his hair is stuck wetly to his cheeks and his nose needs to be blown, but it feels alright.

 

* * *

It is getting late by the time Hanzo and Jesse find their way back to the rest of the team.  Between now and then, Hanzo had taken the time to regain his composure – hair pulled back into a neat bun, with his soaked bangs bobby pinned out of his face.  His eyes still feel puffy, rubbed to redness at the corners, and he is certain that his occasional sniffling will only add to his conspicuity.

Jesse has not once moved any further than a few inches from his side.  Rather than annoy him, Hanzo feels grateful for his partner’s support.

When they approach the small gathering around the front entrance, Lena perks up immediately, breaking from her conversation with Winston to greet them.  “Hey, there you guys are!”  Everyone looks to them.  Hanzo is surprised by how many are smiling.  Likely to see Jesse again, he imagines.

“We were wondering where you two wandered off to,” Satya says, only somewhat reproachfully.  She gestures to their (heinous, absolutely obnoxious) sticker-laden bins, already loaded onto the hand truck.  “Fareeha was kind enough to pick up your bins after she saw them in the hallway.”

Hanzo bows his head in thanks, somewhat stunned by the girl’s generosity.  He does not trust himself to speak just yet.

Fareeha’s expression is warm as she nods back at him.  “I couldn’t just leave them lying around,” she chuckles softly.  “Didn’t want you to end up like poor Angela.”

He does not know what she refers to, but assumes it is some sort of speech kid inside joke, as Sombra and Jamison begin to laugh at the reminder.  Hanzo smiles politely nonetheless.

Morrison looks curious, almost hopeful, when he inquires, “How’d it go today?”

Hanzo’s nerves return.  He manages to shake his head mutely, before looking away.

Next to him, Jesse speaks up.  “Ah, we got dropped.”

Their coach’s expression is sympathetic.  He is a perfect mirror of the rest of the team, who all frown or make disappointed noises at the bad news.  “Oh.  That’s too bad,” he says with a sigh.  “We haven’t had a good time of it, this year.”

“What happened, anyway?”  Mei asks, well-intentioned as always.

Still, it does not make him feel better.  He sniffs, quickly looking away as he feels that familiar prickle build in the corners of his eyes.  They sting from the earlier exertion, Hanzo’s overeager rubbing leaving the skin around his eyes oversensitive.

It takes him far too long to think of something to say, of a way to phrase his failure in a way more translatable than another round of messy crying.  That, he thinks, may be more mortifying than the way they got into this situation in the first place.

As it would turn out, he does not have to worry long.

“We got judge fucked, that’s what!”  Jesse points at their teammates for emphasis, looking convincingly irate.  He does not even flinch at Morrison’s reprimand about his language, just looks to Hanzo with a faint, encouraging nod.  To anyone else, it would look like he was merely confirming with his partner.

Hanzo knows better.

He nods anyway.

“Complete B.S.,” Jesse continues with Hanzo’s encouragement, mindful of their coach’s scolding.  “How’re we supposed to compete with a team of twins?”

Lena’s face screws up into a sympathetic scowl.  “ _Eugh!_   Judges always eat that stuff up for the team events.”  Amélie nods in concurrence.  He supposes they would know more about that than either he or Jesse.  “Sorry to hear about that, loves.”

“We are, too.”  Hanzo looks at Jesse.

He remembers a different conversation just a few months ago, what changed everything between them.  _Your secret’s safe with me._

“Well don’t beat yourselves up over it.”  Reyes says, reaching over to give a firm, reassuring squeeze to Jesse’s shoulder.  He catches Hanzo’s gaze as he steps away, smirk faintly shifting the raised scars streaking across his cheek.  “There’s always next year.”

 

* * *

 

Hanzo takes a moment to look out over the audience – almost every seat is filled.  Thousands of people stare back at him, expectant of the start of their performance.  Some of the judges have already taken their places, he imagines, but he forces himself not to look at them, worried that he might attempt to dissect the intricacies of their expressions.  His heart practically jumps into his throat every few minutes in anticipation as it is.

The reality of their situation is just starting to sink in, he realizes.  When he reaches up to adjust a stack of papers on their table, he finds that his hands are shaking.

“You nervous?”

Trust Jesse to notice.

Hanzo holds still against the shivers that run down the length of his spine at his partner’s question.  Jesse is leaning in to murmur close to his ear, too low for the mics clipped to their ties to catch, but loud enough for him to hear.

He sucks in a steadying breath, shutting his eyes to save his eyes from scouring the crowd.  “Yes,” he says on an exhale, finding that his breath is coming a little short.  Fortunately, they flipped for affirmative, so Jesse will be speaking first.  It should give him enough time for the familiar rhythm of debating to return to him, hopefully burying any of his lingering worries.

Jesse is smart enough not to say ‘don’t be.’  He knows how much Hanzo worries, how long he has waited and how hard he has worked to finally, _finally_ be on this stage.

And now, the culmination of all their work will be determined by a panel of judges over the next half hour.

Instead, McCree lowly inquires, “What are you thinking?”

Hanzo swallows with difficulty.  His throat feels impossibly tight, yet he knows that he is not in danger of suffocating.  Forcing his hands to fold together, willing them to be still, gives him something to focus on other than this all-consuming panic simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to strike just when he lets his guard down.  He remembers last year and feels a jolt of terror run through him, imagining standing up before this crowd with nothing to show but empty air.

They made it to the final, but that means nothing if Hanzo trips them up.

“Han.”  Jesse’s voice brings him back to himself, everything in sudden, painfully sharp focus.

“I can’t do that again,” he practically wheezes, knowing that Jesse will understand his meaning.  “What if I do, though?  I—I don’t want…”

Hanzo falls silent when he feels warm, stabilizing pressure encompassing his wrist.  He looks down at it, at the code written on the back of Jesse’s hand: _256._   McCree and Shimada.

“You’ve got this, Hanzo.”  He squeezes Hanzo’s wrist, thumb rubbing little circles into his skin.  “You didn’t freeze up so far.  Just treat it like any other round.”

Easier said than done.  Their opponents beat them at Glenbrooks not long ago, and it takes an immense amount of willpower not to look over at the adjacent table and size them up.  Were they nervous at all to face Hanzo and Jesse?  Or did they feel as though they had already won?

Jesse must notice Hanzo’s hesitance, because he starts speaking again.  “I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

Hanzo turns to him, unable to keep himself from smiling.  Their eyes meet, and everything else seems to melt away under Jesse’s steady gaze.  Without looking away, Hanzo slips from Jesse’s grip – but not for long.  He places his hand atop his partner’s, squeezing the fingers tight, watching as a grin splits across McCree’s face.

“I don’t think I could have made it this far without you,” Hanzo admits on a low hum.  He can feel the way his lip twists up at one end wickedly, privately savors the amusement that tumbles out, unable to resist teasing Jesse a little.  “Who else would spread for me?”

Jesse’s laugh is loud and unrestrained, but Hanzo cannot bring himself to look away to check if he has drawn any attention to them.  When he has settled down, he retorts with an equally mischievous glimmer to his eyes.  “Darlin’, you won’t find anyone better than me.”

 

* * *

 

“Does the trophy _really_ need its own seat?”

He glances at the trophy, proof of their victory.  It is buckled in, snug and secure for the drive home from Nationals.

A wave of pity washes over him.  The floor is a cold and unforgiving place to be sitting for such a long trip.  He supposes that he could move it…but to do so, he would have to wake Jesse.

His partner is sound asleep, chest rising and falling in rhythmic motions, an arm loosely hooked around Hanzo’s.  It would be cruel to wake him up after all of his hard work.  Hanzo figures he deserves some rest.  One look at his peaceful smile, slightly squashed from where Jesse’s face is pressed awkwardly against the window, and Hanzo has made up his mind.

Without looking back at Jamie, Hanzo replies, voice flat.  “Yes.”

Soon enough, Hanzo’s eyes grow heavy, encouraged by the muted noise of Jesse’s victory playlist filtering through the stereo system.  Reyes had smiled indulgently at his son, even laughed when Jesse convinced Hanzo to sing a verse – a _single_ verse, and not a word more – from the team’s off-key rendition of _We Are the Champions_.  Hanzo wondered when Jesse had even put a victory playlist together for such an occasion.  The thought of McCree, so convinced of the eventuality of their victory, brings a sweet smile to his face.  Without much thought, Hanzo’s body leans in toward the closest source of heat, eyes already shut.

He falls asleep on Jesse’s shoulder, curled up snugly against his partner’s side.

 

* * *

 

He has only been to McCree’s residence twice.

The first visit was strictly business – shortly after they became partners, Hanzo stopped by to drop off Jesse’s copy of their affirmative case that he conveniently “forgot” after practice.  His second visit was that same summer, to set the groundwork for their case next year.  For as many hours as they put into it, only in hindsight does Hanzo now know that the effort was worth it – the Nationals trophy, set in Overwatch Academy’s trophy case, was proof of that.

This summer, though, Hanzo finds himself at Jesse’s front door at his partner’s request.  He is not certain why his stomach flutters so violently as he walks up the short driveway, nor why he has to take a deep, steadying breath before he feels capable of ringing the doorbell.

There is a shuffling sound beyond the barrier of wood and glass, like a manual lock being turned from its slot.  Not but three seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Mr. Reyes, expression dry.  “Hanzo,” he greets neutrally, no doubt expectant of the Shimada’s arrival.  There is a trace of fondness in the way he says it, but most of it is buried by his casual disaffection.  Whenever Hanzo thinks of the speech coach as taciturn, he remembers how easily he banters with Jesse and Lena on the long road trips, or the way he gently ribs Jamison and Sombra for their mistakes during practice.  “Come on in.  Jesse’s in his room.”

“Thank you.”  Permission granted, Hanzo steps inside the two-story townhouse, toeing his shoes off and leaving them near the entrance.  Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Reyes nodding his head in approval as he shuts the door.

“First door on your right up the stairs.  You want me to show you?”

Mutely, Hanzo shakes his head.  He clears his throat.  “I believe I remember where it is.”

“Great.  Just shout if you need anything,” Reyes says, and stalks off through the adjacent living room before Hanzo can even thank him for his hospitality.

Hanzo tracks the slope of the narrow staircase with his eyes.  He feels winded even before he begins his ascent, his grip on the wooden banister slick with sweat.  Sunlight filters through the high windows, leaving warm patches where it falls in rectangular slats along the carpet.  The second floor landing is little more than a hallway, orientated horizontally, with a door at each end.  Turning right upon his summit, it takes him a matter of seconds to reach Jesse’s bedroom.  It never ceases to amaze him how modest Jesse’s house is in comparison to the virtually palatial home his father had purchased upon their move to the States.

Willing his nerves to relax, Hanzo gives three swift, successive raps to the wooden doorframe.  Almost immediately, he hears a loud _thump_ followed by muted cursing.  Jesse is rubbing at his knee when the door to his bedroom opens, but his sour expression melts into a wide, dazzling grin that punches all the air out of Hanzo’s lungs when he sees it.  “Hanzo, hey!”

“Hello,” he replies, more restrained with his own smile.  It does not seem to discourage Jesse.  Rather, the teen corrals him in with a gentle nudge to his shoulder, smile somehow wider.

Jesse’s room is much smaller than Hanzo’s own, barely able to fit the full-size bed and desk that occupy most of the space.  This time it is not littered with articles of clothing or discarded junk food wrappers, as though his partner had bothered to put some effort toward cleaning it before Hanzo’s arrival.  Perhaps he had remembered Hanzo’s look of disdain the last time he was over, when he saw the mess Jesse was willing to live in.

Overall, Jesse’ room has far more character than Hanzo’s.  There are framed posters of old western films hung up on the wall over the headboard, most of which he does not recognize.  In the far corner, Jesse’s ridiculous hat hangs askew on top of a trophy, placed among its brethren, a lavish display of their successes that took up much of the shelving installations.  On the desk rests a computer, its monitor alight with its owner’s previous activity.  Music, apparently, judging by the background noise of soft acoustics filling up the space.  A single window, curtains half-drawn, allows light to filter into the space, filled with evidence of Jesse’s existence.  It feels as though someone actually lives here, as opposed to the stark, clean chambers Hanzo merely sleeps in when his days finally come to a close.

“You wanted to go over options for next year, right?”  Jesse shuffles around Hanzo, their shoulders brushing briefly.  Hanzo’s gaze seeks him instinctively.  He takes a seat at his abandoned computer chair, swiveling around to fiddle around with his desktop.  A few clicks of the mouse later, and the music filtering from Jesse’s discarded headset stops.  “Because I was looking at the resolution, and I actually had a few ideas for a cool 1AC…”

Hanzo is grateful that Jesse is not looking at him, as he visibly winces.  It is a reminder of what he needs to say, and that sets his heart beating just a bit faster.  He subconsciously grabs at the strap of his messenger bag, worrying it with restless kneading.  “That is not why I’m here.”

Jesse swivels back around, staring at him with furrowed brows.  “Um, _what_?  You always wanna talk shop.”  He squints, mouth turning up at the corner in a playful smirk.  “You didn’t just come over to see lil’ old me, did’ja?”

“No.”  He _wishes_ that was why he made the nearly twenty-minute drive, if only to stop his partner from pouting in disappointment.  Hanzo has just a moment to admire that charming expression before he sharply reminds himself that this will not be so harmless for long, no doubt shifting the subtle mood in the room with it.  “I thought this conversation would best be had in person.”

Jesse laughs weakly, smile too forced to mask his concern.  He holds his hands fisted tightly atop his jean-clad thighs. Even his voice is uncertain, treading carefully in this new territory, prodding for landmines.  “Hanzo, you’re scarin’ me.”

_Take a deep breath,_ Hanzo thinks, _and let it out._   He forces himself to comply.  It is surprisingly difficult just to do so, but he finds that it helps him to settle, grounds him.  Despite the tight pressure exerting itself around his throat, Hanzo finds the willpower to meet Jesse’s gaze head-on.  “I think I may quit the team.”

There were a few scenarios Hanzo played out in his head, when he prepared himself for this conversation.  Jesse, feigning excitement.  Actual excitement.  He thought, if anything, Jesse would be disappointed, but understanding.

Disappointed would be an understatement.

Jesse looks _devastated._

“What?”  His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.  “You’re… _why?_ ”

Hanzo flinches, a sudden hyper-awareness of his surroundings flooding him.  “It isn’t your fault—” he attempts to reassure, but Jesse barrels on, as though he had not heard.

“Did I make things weird, with – with _us?_   Just.  Tell me what I did, and I can—”

“Jesse!”  He regrets raising his voice the moment McCree jumps, trying to press himself as far back in his chair as possible.  Hanzo lets out a little sigh.  Shaky, like the footing of his resolve.  He is careful to continue in a gentler tone, hoping to repair the damage he has already done. “As I was trying to say, it isn’t your fault.  I’m merely concerned about my classes suffering.”  Just the thought of having to explain to his father why his grade point average dropped leaves his nerves frayed.  “If I have to pick one over the other, my grades come before debate.”

Despite the reassurance, Jesse is determined to wallow in his misery.  He makes a pathetic picture, the way he slumps over, as though by sheer force of will he could become one with the desk chair.  “How else am I supposed to see you?”

“I don’t know.”  The answer is an honest one.  It hurts him to admit it.

Truth be told, Hanzo could not imagine spending any less time with his partner.  His company had become one of the few things he looked forward to in his week.  Debate practice became less of a footnote on his college applications, and more of an excuse to hang out with Jesse.  During the school year, Hanzo’s life is practically on a railroad track, unable to deviate from the schedules daily lain out for him.  When this summer ends, he knows that there will be no time for Jesse.  Even their electives will have no overlap – Hanzo replaced all of his with college courses, and so much of his time will not even be spent at the academy.  It may very well be that their conversations will be relegated to text messages and Skype, neither of which Hanzo typically relishes.  Nothing will ever compare to hearing Jesse’s laugh in person.

The tense silence is broken when Jesse’s head snaps up, brown eyes glinting.  Hanzo knows that look – it is the same one his partner gets in round, just before coming up with an (usually, at least) impenetrable rebuttal.  “What if you didn’t debate?”

Hanzo scowls.  “Isn’t that what I just said I was going to do?”

“No, I mean—” Jesse leans forward, his usual energy restored.  “What if you just did a speech event, instead?”

“I fail to see how this helps lessen my workload.”  Hanzo crosses his arms.

A smile slowly creeps across Jesse’s face.  “Well, think about it!  Once you have all of the hard details worked out, like cutting the script and memorizing it, it pretty much becomes muscle memory.  You practically go into auto-pilot at that point!”

As soon as Jesse puts the idea in his head, he knows that he is sold.  Hanzo fights it anyway, just on principle.  “I’ve never acted before.”

“You’ve got the whole summer to learn,” Jesse reasons, “and if I could do it, then so can you!”

Hanzo sometimes forgets that McCree was supposed to be in Humorous Interpretation before Morrison poached him.  But he doubts that it is as easy as Jesse makes it out to be.  Hanzo has never been accused of being charismatic.  Or charming.  He bites his lip.  “I don’t know how any of those events work.”

Jesse scoffs.  He recognizes a weak argument when he sees one.  “Coach Reyes is downstairs.  If we have any questions, we can just go get ‘em.”

And of course, the round was already conceded to Jesse when it began.  They both knew that.  “The idea does sound…appealing.”

“C’mon,” Jesse wheedles.  “It’s gonna be your senior year!  You deserve to have fun.  Go out with a bang, y’know?”

Before he can stop himself, Hanzo smiles.  “When do we start?”

“‘We?’”  The other startles, taken aback by Hanzo’s word choice.

The angle of Hanzo’s smile shifts minutely, leaving it lopsided.  “You _are_ my partner, are you not?”

There is a moment where Jesse simply stares at him, dumbfounded.  He seems to have difficulty processing the statement.  When his brain sorts the word puzzle out, he grins, positively ecstatic.  “Damn straight I am.”

 

* * *

 

A week passes, and Hanzo finds himself back at Jesse’s house.  Reyes gives him a rather more enthusiastic greeting upon his arrival, apparently having heard the news of their switch ‘to the dark side,’ as the speech coach phrased it, from his son.  He imagines it will only be a matter of time before the other shoe drops, so to speak, and Morrison learns of their betrayal.  Part of him wants to be there when it happens, just to see how far Reyes will take his gloating.

Hanzo is striding through the entrance to Jesse’s room when he begins, all business.  “I was doing some research on our event, and I noticed a trend in the types of pieces that reach the finals at Nationals.”

Truth be told, Hanzo did not know what to expect when he agreed to Jesse’s partner in Duo Interpretation.  He had never witnessed a speech event in his life.  The research he had done was partly to quell his anxieties about jumping into an event that he had no knowledge of, and in part to determine what sort of competition he should be expecting.

It would be a massive understatement to say that what he had seen was enough to shake him.

Behind him, Jesse shuts the door with a dramatic groan.  “ _Seriously?_ ”

Hanzo turns to him, working a frown onto his face.  “What?”

“I thought this was supposed to be fun,” Jesse says, eyes narrowing.

“I have more fun when I’m successful.”  Hanzo crosses his arms defensively.  “Don’t you?”

Jesse shakes his head.  “You’re overthinking it, Hanzo.”

“Am I?”  His tone lacks question, and instead bites at the imagined sleight.  “All of the top six pieces over the last decade typically have mature themes with enough levity to provide a balanced performance, and enough material to allow the team to be creative with their movements and enhance the storytelling.”

“You can do that _and_ have fun with it, you know.  You don’t have to focus on winning to do it.”

Hanzo fiddles with the adjustment buckle on his messenger bag.  Truth be told, he had not even considered that as the root of his worries.  Of course he wanted to do well.  Was that not a natural desire?  He fails to see how being driven can be anything but an asset to their career.

He had never considered it, because when he saw those performers, a part of him doubted – still doubts – that he could ever be half as good as them.  It was one thing to plan for arguments that your opponent might make in debate, but in speech?  He had no way to plan for someone who was just…better than him.  There was no resolution by which to predict their strategy.  All he could do is sit back and watch himself lose for fifty excruciating minutes.  And that was just operating under the assumption that he was the best in the room.  What if _all five_ competitors were better than him?

Instead of saying any of this, he glares weakly at his partner.

Jesse seems to understand, even without words, that Hanzo is nervous.  He quickly shifts gear, offering an easy grin.  “Why don’t we work out the mechanics first, instead?  We’ll worry about finding a piece later.”

Hanzo nods his head in agreement, eager to put this troubling train of thought behind him.

His partner claps his hands together.  “Great!  Help me move the bed?”

Together they manage to push Jesse’s bed back toward the far wall, giving them a few extra feet to maneuver around in.  Hanzo is surprised that Mr. Reyes does not rush up the stairs to check on them, considering the noise, but he figures that their coach is likely expectant of Jesse’s odd behavior.  Or perhaps he figures that with Hanzo around, it can hardly be anything that needs investigating.

Kicking a few empty water bottles and stray wrappers back under Jesse’s bed with a pointed glare (at least Jesse has the decency to look embarrassed), Hanzo turns to him.  “How are we supposed to work on movement without a script?”

“That’s the fun part!”  Jesse looks genuinely eager as he explains.  “We have to think of creative ways to do every day actions without touching or looking at each other.”

Hanzo wrinkles his nose.  “I still don’t understand that rule.  How does that enhance the performance?”

“It’s not about making it better, it’s about making it more difficult.  Think of it like…a test of your creativity.  You’re trying to sell the judges on how well you can _act_ like you’re interacting with an environment.  If one of us touched the other, it’d be like using a prop.  And props are basically crutches.”

The explanation disagrees with him, but Hanzo nods as though he accepts it nonetheless.  “Very well.”

“So,” Jesse begins, “we should probably start easy.  What if two characters need to look at each other?”

Hanzo remembers this from the videos he watched.  He faces McCree with a huff, then steps slightly to the side.  While his partner may be out of his sight lines, to an audience, it would appear as though they are looking at one another.  “If you meant easy by the standards of the comatose,” he mutters, just a tad bit insulted.

McCree hums, the noise emanating from deep within his chest.  He is staring straight ahead, to any spectator’s eye glaring Hanzo down like he had done something to wrong Jesse in another life.  “Draw!” In the blink of an eye, Jesse makes a motion to pull an object from the non-existent holster at his belt, holding it aloft.  His finger is poised as though ready on a trigger.

Hanzo stares at him.  “Is this a cowboy thing?”

His partner huffs, pretending to holster his pretend pistol.  “It’s an improv thing, actually.  And you just failed spectacularly.”

“I would have done fine if you had _told_ _me_.”  Hanzo wishes that he was allowed to face McCree right now, just so he could glare at him.  There is another, more insistent part of his mind that wants to jump out McCree’s window just to avoid the embarrassment crawling up his neck in a scarlet flush.

“That’s your problem,” Jesse says, turning to face him.  Hanzo takes this as permission to do the same.  “You’re all up here.”  He taps at his temple.  “You keep trying to think about things instead of just letting them come naturally.  That works just fine in debate, but you can’t operate like that during a performance.  People’re gonna be able to tell you’re not feeling it.”

Hanzo lets out a frustrated growl.  Hardly three minutes in, and Jesse is already criticizing him!  “So how do you suggest I fix this, hm?”

The hostility in his tone must have been apparent, because Jesse’s expression turns apologetic.  “Aw, c’mon Han, I didn’t mean it personally!  Everyone’s a little bit stiff when they first try interp events.  Reyes is always tellin’ me about how awkward Jamie was when he first started, and you saw how well he did last year!”

It takes him a moment to clear his thoughts, but after allowing himself to focus on his breathing, Hanzo must admit to himself that Jesse was just trying to help.  Maybe not in a well-executed manner, but his heart was in the right place.  And he does have a point – Hanzo is not the most uninhibited person, he knows this.  Genji tells him all the time.  In any other situation, his self-discipline is a valuable tool.  But being so focused on how he must look to others will only bring about the embarrassment he wants to avoid.

Now, the problem is in getting to a point where he feels comfortable acting like an idiot in front of complete strangers.

“I am sorry,” he manages, voice still tight with irritation.  It ebbs away easily when he remembers how excited Jesse looked to be doing these exercises with him, how upset Jesse was last week when Hanzo had told him that he was thinking of quitting.  If it means making his partner happy, then he will try to embrace this as much as he possibly can.  “Let’s try again.”

Jesse beams.

The next two hours are filled with improvisational exercises and practice in creating unique illusions suitable for Duo Interpretation’s absurd rules.  At first, he is stiff and awkward.  Hanzo imagines that asking him to act like he is an overwhelmed single father is a lot like pulling teeth from a very ornery snake.  It helps at first to remember that Jesse must also look and feel ridiculous doing these practice runs, but that soon gives way to frustration when he notices how effortless his partner looks when he performs off the cuff.  While not intentional, Hanzo feels that the situation itself is set up to mock him.

After a while, though, he must admit that he is getting better.  He simply forgets to be angry after Jesse flails his arms too wildly and smacks one hard against his bedroom wall, cursing loud enough to get Mr. Reyes to investigate.  Hanzo laughs when their coach simply rolls his eyes from where he’s poking his head through the door, leaving without a single word.  Jesse grumbles about Hanzo having a ‘sadistic streak’ until Hanzo makes a show of looking over his partner’s arm for damage.  The way Jesse peers down at him, face lightly flushed, makes Hanzo abandon the task.  Not for lack of wanting, but for lack of nerve.

Sometimes the sheer absurdity of it all becomes too much to ignore.  But instead of being a source of eternal embarrassment that his mind will supply any time it wishes to disturb Hanzo while he is at peace, Jesse makes it feel special for a different reason.  At one point Jesse suggests they attempt to create the form of a giant dragon.  In Hanzo’s mind, he imagines something serpentine, writhing easily through the air.  So of course it surprises him when Jesse steps behind him and begins flapping his arms in a nonsensical display for the prompt.  It must have been strange for Jesse to see Hanzo attempting to mime out a slithering motion through the air, because they both start to laugh at the same time.

Maybe it’s the way Jesse laughs so easily at himself, or how the afternoon sun filtering through his bedroom window seems to make his eyes sparkle golden at the right angle.  Hanzo could hardly say what it was that made him feel so much at ease in that moment.

So when Jesse suggests it, Hanzo hardly feels the need to be suspicious.

“What about if…”  He pauses, swallowing thickly.  When he speaks again, Jesse’s voice is hushed.  “If two characters were kissing?”

The action seems too physical to imitate, at the first suggestion.  “That’s impossible,” Hanzo determines, attempting to work the angles out in his head.  There is too much that would have to be perfected every time, too many motions that if removed would end up making the action look too stiff.

Jesse apparently disagrees, because he crosses his arms stubbornly.  He adopts a challenging smirk.  “That too difficult for ya, Han?”

Hanzo narrows his eyes, bristling.  Oh, he knows that this is a game.  Jesse intends to taunt him into trying.  But he is loath to refuse such an obvious challenge.  If he refuses it, then Jesse will simply claim that he is cleverer than Hanzo – the other teen would not have issued it if he was not certain there is a way, of that Hanzo is convinced.

But how to outsmart him?

There is Jesse, framed by the sunlight through his window.  Inspiration strikes.  “What if you stood behind me,” he instructs, licking his lips, “and pretended to hold me?”

His partner complies.  “Like this?”  Jesse’s hands ghost over his shoulders, the lack of presence a strange disappointment that sets his heart beating.  This close, he fears that Jesse will hear it.

What would Jesse say, if Hanzo told him that this was borne of his desire to kiss him?

What would he say, if Hanzo admitted that this was not the first time he had thought of Jesse in this way?

“Yes.”  Hanzo shuts his eyes, imagines for a moment that they are close enough to touch.  “And then you would…lean diagonally, and I to the side.”  He turns his head.  The illusion of intimacy.  To an onlooker, it might be real.  But for them, there is to be no collide.  McCree isn’t even looking at him, not really.  Just empty air, space that feels so terribly vast.

For a moment, he thinks he is just imagining the warm breath that ghosts across his face.  Hanzo is certain that his mind is simply tricking him, perhaps attempting to grant him one small mercy from this torture that Jesse has unwittingly put him through.

But then there is firm, smooth pressure against his lips, and Hanzo is certain of it.

Jesse McCree is kissing him.

The angle is awkward, both forced to strain their necks to the point of discomfort, but Hanzo could care less.  He cannot hold back the soft noise that crawls up his throat when he feels Jesse wind his arms around his waist, nor resist the long-held desire to reach up and tangle his fingers in his partner’s shaggy hair.

Before long they are pulling back, gasping for air they would rather put to better use.  Jesse, for his part, looks pleasantly dazed.  His grin is slow as he regards Hanzo, rubbing little circles with his thumbs into Hanzo’s sides.  “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”  The way his voice sounds, soft and low in his ear, sends a pleasant shiver down Hanzo’s spine.

And he laughs for the absurdity of the statement, as though he has not spent the last year wishing for something that he thought he could never have.  That they both could have had, if either had known.  Hanzo wiggles in McCree’s grip until he can face his partner, wrapping his hands behind Jesse’s neck.  They lean in, no obstacles between them.

They could both use some more practice, after all.

 

* * *

 

Their relationship does not stay secret for long.

Not that they expected it to, with one of their coaches at home half of the time.  It was a mutual decision that they should practice over the summer exclusively at Jesse’s house.  Hanzo would rather that Reyes find out than his father.  He did not particularly relish that conversation.

It was only a matter of time, Hanzo knows this.

Still, he had hoped they could go at least _one_ competition under the radar.  If only to put off the inevitable.

“This is a punishment, isn’t it?”

“What are you even _talking about_ , Gabe?”

Next to him, Jesse audibly winces.

They are sitting in the hotel lobby, awaiting room assignments, after almost five hours on the road to the first early bird invitational of the year.  The whole team is gathered around the couches, some sitting, others opting to stand.  All are pretending that they are not eavesdropping on their coaches, currently locked in heated debate a few feet away.  The lack of distance – and the volume of their conversation – does not make it particularly difficult to do so.

Hanzo wishes that they would at least try a little harder, though.

“This is your way of spiting me for stealing back my _mijo_ and taking your golden boy with him, isn’t it?”  Mr. Reyes sounds nearly livid, his arms crossed stubbornly across his chest as he leans forward.  The fierce glint in his eye tells Hanzo that they will likely be here a while longer.  “That’s real petty, Morrison.  Screwing over a coupl’a students over some personal grudge.”

Morrison had been surprisingly accepting of Hanzo and McCree’s decision to defect to speech, actually.  Of course he was disappointed to hear that he would be losing his national champions, but as he had told them, at least they wouldn’t be going far.  None of that seems to matter now, however.  “I’m not—” Mr. Morrison pinches at the bridge of his nose, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.  “Look, Gabe.  This has nothing to do with you stealing my Policy team, and everything to do with them being minors.  As their chaperones, we have a responsibility to make sure they don’t do anything…unseemly.”

Perched on the armrest of the couch across from them, Sombra snickers.

“They can’t practice if they’re in separate rooms, Jack.”

“Who says they’ll practice _at all_ if we put them in a room together?”

“You kidding?”  Mr. Reyes scoffs, waving an arm dismissively.  “We’re talking about _Hanzo_ here!  He does nothing _but_ practice!  I’ll bet it’s the kid’s idea of pillow talk.”

Laughter ripples throughout the team.  Some, like Angela, are at least decent enough to try their best not to show their amusement.  Others like Jamison merely encourage the others to be louder.

Hanzo silences them all with the force of his glower.  There is a catharsis in that simple act alone that eases some of the frustration from his tense shoulders.  The rest melts away from the warmth of Jesse’s proximity.

Their coaches continue to bicker for the next five minutes before it appears that they reach some form of consensus.

At the pointed crook of Reyes’s fingers toward them, the new Duo partners approach.  “What’s up?”  Jesse’s greeting is amicable, but to the point.  Hanzo finds himself grateful for his partner’s patience.  Everyone is tired, and the more Hanzo thinks about how much practice he wants to squeeze in tonight before they retire, the more frustrating this delay becomes.

“Listen, kiddos.  Morrison and I think that it would be…irresponsible of us, as your coaches, to allow you two to room together,” Reyes says.  He seems irritated, but beneath that, apologetic.

Morrison cuts in then, offering a slightly more neutral response.  “However, we agree it would be unfair to separate you two, being partners and all.  Since we can’t seem to decide what would be best, we’ll leave the choice up to you.”

Hanzo raises a brow.  “What choice?”

 

That night, Hanzo and Jesse lay in the double-sized bed of their hotel room, legs tangled together.  Jesse has an arm draped over Hanzo’s waist, fingers tickling aimless trails along the dips and curves of his back.  Though it is dark, Hanzo can make out his partner’s silhouette in the dim light that spills from the window, the busy nightlife polluting darkness.  He thinks there is a smile on Jesse face, but he cannot be certain.

It feels nice to relax like this after practicing for two hours straight, Hanzo thinks.  He wishes they had started this sooner – having something to look forward to makes a good recitation of their piece somehow more rewarding.

“You nervous for tomorrow?”  It is a whisper that Hanzo feels more than anything.  With his ear pressed to Jesse’s chest, he can hear the words as they are born, the very breath that expels them.

Hanzo considers how he ought to answer.  He knows that Jesse concerns himself over Hanzo’s state of mind before a competition, perhaps to an excessive degree.  While he finds it somewhat patronizing, he also must accept the fact that Jesse is not wrong to anticipate his fluctuating calm.  Hanzo doubts that he will ever stop being nervous, especially knowing that it will be their first time performing for actual judges.  He did not know how to feel about their debut competition being one on a national circuit, either, other than to fret about making a fool of himself in front of the best competitors in their event.

But the preparation they have done makes him feel better.  Angela and Fareeha were very receptive to their impromptu performance this evening, after Hanzo relented to their incessant requests that they watch a practice run.  Even Sombra had positive remarks, for the most part devoid of her usual lively snark.  Jamie was enthusiastic, but not exactly helpful.

He doubts that Mr. Reyes, who had been keeping a careful eye on their progress and giving pointers where he could, would have lied to them.  And even considering Jesse’s considerable bias, he knows that his partner would have told him if they were not ready for the level of competition they would face tomorrow.

That considered, Hanzo feels comfortable with his response.  “It comes and goes.”

“We’re ready.”  Jesse sounds certain, no room for argument.  As though he suspected Hanzo might try.

“I know we are.”  He cannot help that his reply is just this side of tart.  It is hardly a matter of knowing that they are ready.  Hanzo knew he was ready when he stood up to give his rebuttal at Nationals two years ago, and that had not stopped him from freezing up.

Jesse shushes him, cooing apologetically into the shell of Hanzo’s ear. The fingers tracing along his back press in just a bit deeper, massaging at the muscles that Hanzo did not even realize were growing tense.  He lets himself relax in slow increments.

Hanzo laps once at his lower lip, peering up at Jesse curiously.  “Are you?  Nervous, that is.”

Anyone would be hard-pressed to describe McCree as anything other than steady.  He was always self-assured, holding himself with an easy sort of pride that could be mistaken for a devil-may-care approach to competition.  It took Hanzo a long time to realize that Jesse truly did care about performing well.  His standards were different, though – where Hanzo prepared without rest and fretted over the external factors he could not control, Jesse focused on the internal.

Naturally, it surprises him when Jesse hums, “A little bit.”

Hanzo sits up a bit so that they can make eye contact.  Truth be told, Hanzo feels a bit guilty for not considering Jesse’s feelings before this.  Has he been neglectful?

Though he cannot precisely see the features of Jesse’s face, he knows approximately where they are.  “You have no need to worry,” Hanzo whispers (hates how hesitant it sounds, how much it shows that he has no clue what he’s doing), stroking his fingers along the stubbly line of Jesse’s jaw.  He will have to force his partner to shave tomorrow, no doubt.

With a wicked smirk obscured by the night, Hanzo devises a way to distract his partner.  He leans in, lips hovering temptingly above Jesse’s.

As predicted, the junior smiles, unsuspecting of ulterior motive as he leans forward.

The disappointed groan Jesse lets out when Hanzo leans away is musical in quality.  He cannot help but to chuckle, perhaps a bit louder than is appropriate, given the time of night.  “If you do well tomorrow, I will consider picking up where we left off.  But only if you get all of your lines right.”

Jesse flops back down with a pout.  “Hanz- _o_ ,” he whines, elongating the final vowel, “why you gotta be so cruel?”

There is a _whoosh_ as an object flies through the open air, just above their heads.  Hanzo ducks in time avoid it, the offending pillow arcing wide of their bed.  It lands on the ground with an exaggerated _ploff._   “Oi!  Will you two lovebirds can it already?”  Jamie sinks back under his covers, a ceaseless string of expletives – most of which Hanzo is not familiar with – rushing out with every irritated huff as he attempts to get comfortable once more.

Hanzo presses his lips together tightly, sealing up the laughter that lingers somewhere deep within his lungs.  In the darkness, he thinks he catches sight of Jesse’s eyes glittering with mirth.  They fall to snickering together like a pair of lucky thieves over their spoils, willfully ignorant to their witness, feeling for all the world like royalty.

 

* * *

 

A sort of buzz comes with the close of most competitions.  It is the excitement of victory, or in absence of that, the general cheer that seems to pervade the gathering of a Forensics team in one place, which leads to the effervescent fizzle of chatter on the road home.  Hanzo cannot count the number of times he has had to drown out all the raucous laughter with his study playlists blasting through his earbuds.  On occasion he has humored Jesse’s cajoling, usually sorely regretting it when he is roped into a disturbing line of conversation.  But he has fond memories of the trips where he allowed himself a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity, when Jamie remembered to bring it – especially the dumbstruck looks that swept across the passengers when prim-and-proper Hanzo played a winning card.  He does not understand their shock.  Hanzo refuses to be second best, even at a filthy card game.

In particular, he relishes the moments when the bubble pops.  Everyone at once, collectively, remembers how tired they are and settles into an easy silence.  It is then that Hanzo can sit back and simply enjoy being a part of a team.  Since the start of his relationship with Jesse it has become even more enjoyable.  There is nothing better than nestling up against his boyfriend and dozing off as the post-competition haze wears off, the sound of cars zipping past them on the highway a soothing lullaby.

There is none of this now.

No one had done particularly well this time – at least not on their end.  It was a deep shock to them all when Jamie was cut at Quarter-Finals, even more so when Sombra was cut at Semis.  While Jamie had merely shrugged and looked a bit glum the rest of the evening, Sombra was livid.  She was convinced that this all went back to last year’s scandal, when one of her competitors had accused her of plagiarism.

Hanzo strongly doubts this was the case, but he was hardly going to take away her ability to vent, no matter how grating he found it.

Which she had done for the first half-hour of their trip since they had gotten on the road.

Everyone had been surprisingly tolerant, pretending to listen or otherwise ignoring her in favor of their own silent wallowing in self-pity.  That is, until Jesse had suddenly whipped his seatbelt off, twisted around in his seat, and politely told her to ‘shut the fuck up, no one wants to hear it, no one cares.’  They began an impressive shouting match in rapid-fire Spanish that only died down when Reyes barked at them to sit down and be quiet.

Almost an hour of tense, uncomfortable silence had followed.

Hanzo sneaks a glance at his partner in the seat next to him.  Jesse is scowling deeply out the window, his forehead pressed against the cool glass.  He seems focused on the headlights of the cars that pass them by, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.  It is no different than the position he assumed when he had reluctantly turned back around in his seat on his father’s orders.

On several occasions Hanzo has opened his mouth with the intent to speak, but each time he is too cowardly to force them out.  He wants to soothe, to work through Jesse’s foul mood.  He wants the usual cheer and the warmth of his partner to return, but he realizes that he has no clue how to draw it out in the open.  Hanzo is afraid that anything he might try will only worsen things.  The last thing he wants to do is start a fight with Jesse in front of his teammates.  It will not help either of them.

The space between them is only a few centimeters wide, but it still feels daunting to cross nonetheless.

Sombra’s voice penetrates the hush with decisive intent, ringing clear from the back of the van.  “Mr. Reyes, could we stop to eat?  I’m pretty hungry.”  Hanzo cannot see much of her expression through the shadows cast by the late afternoon sun, but he knows her well enough to judge that she has some sort of ulterior motive outside of a dinner break.

A chorus of interest begins to echo in the once-quiet corners of the van.

Perhaps it is the moody, uncharacteristic silence in the van that leaves Mr. Reyes more susceptible to the suggestion.  He glances at the rearview mirror once before his eyes return to the road.  Hanzo knows that the scowl falling over his face is a look of concern.  “I don’t see why not.”

At once everyone seems to perk up, chattering away (or in Jamie’s case, screaming over everyone) about where they ought to go for dinner.  Though Jesse does not attempt to join in the conversation, another glance at his partner tells Hanzo that he is interested.  Despite trying his best to ignore the varied suggestions, Jesse subtly turns his head to follow the conversation as it jumps between the various mouths in the van, eyes lighting up whenever one of his favorites is thrown into consideration.

For Hanzo’s part, he has never been a fan of stopping for food.  He would rather drive the whole way home without breaks between, yearning for the comfort of his bed and a home-cooked meal.  That, and he was never sure if he could trust the judgments of his teammates on what constituted an appropriate place to dine out.  But he keeps his thoughts to himself, if only to avoid breaking the fragile ease that is starting to settle over them.

When they wind up inside an unimpressive looking diner just off the interstate, Hanzo is immediately regretful that he had not at least attempted to steer the team into selecting somewhere at least a _little_ more acceptable.  Still he says nothing.  He tries to keep his expression schooled into a look of perfect, unreadable neutrality as he scoots down the length of the corner booth, making room for his teammates.  Jesse is not far behind him, still sulking if the way he practically tries to merge with the C shaped bench is a fair estimation of his mood.  Fareeha and Angela fill up the empty spaces, while Jamison, Sombra, Lena and Mr. Reyes all take chairs on the opposite end of the long table.

Hanzo is just beginning to peruse the establishment’s menu (and trying his best to ignore the way the pages stick together) when Lena pipes up.  “I can’t believe none of you made it past Semis.”

Sombra splits the laminated menu open none-too-gently.  “That’s because this tournament is rigged.”  For a second, she looks at McCree out of the corner of her eye, as if daring him to speak up.

Jesse looks steadfastly down at the menu resting in front of him on the tabletop.

“Oh stop that,” Angela chides gently.  “Just because that girl _happened_ to be in your round doesn’t prove she somehow magically got you disqualified like last year.”

Hanzo frowns.  She doesn’t seem bothered by the tacky décor or the generally shabby appearance of the diner.  In fact, no one does.  A quick glance around the table confirms it.

Fareeha nods in agreement.  The two always seem to agree, so it comes as no surprise that she should take Angela’s side.  “You weren’t the only one who got cut earlier than expected, either.”  She glances at Hanzo and McCree, frowning deeply when Jesse does not respond.  Hanzo shakes his head minutely, a silent plea to drop it – he doubts that Jesse wants to talk about it.  Fareeha seems to understand, as she nods her head once, returning her attention (reluctantly, he imagines) to the current line of conversation.

“You weren’t there!  You didn’t see the way she was staring at me when I walked into the round.  She’s had it out for me since Nationals!”  Sombra glowers over the top of her menu.

Angela merely shakes her head.  “Next you’re going to tell me that you saw her talking to the judges afterward.”

“Now that you mention it…”

Well, if he _must_ suffer, at least he can try to make his boyfriend happy in the process.

Beneath the table he reaches his hand out, fingertips brushing against the outer seam of Jesse’s pants.  He can feel his partner tense up, just briefly, before reaching down to tangle their fingers together.  Hanzo does not have to look away from his menu to know that Jesse is looking at him, the pressure of his silent query falling heavy on his neck.  He offers a smile in reply, hoping that it is even half as reassuring as all the times that Jesse has done this for him.

It must somehow work, for he feels Jesse lean in close enough to speak under his breath.  “Thanks, Han.”  His tone is weary, not nearly so chipper as Hanzo is used to.  But it is getting there.

Hanzo squeezes Jesse’s hand once.  They don’t let go until the waitress swings by to take their orders.

Sombra continues detailing her surprisingly thorough conspiracy theory about the team’s lack of success to the table while they wait for their food.  Angela appears to regret having ever engaged Sombra in conversation at all, occasionally casting pleading glances at Fareeha, who does little more than grimace.

Lena is, as per usual, not sold by Sombra’s vivid imagination.  Instead she taps her fingers rapidly against the tabletop in lieu of anything better to do.  Hanzo is amazed that she would have the bravery to touch it for any longer than three seconds.

Nothing anyone says seems capable of shaking Sombra off her track.  Once convinced of her certainty, she will not be dissuaded.

Imagine the table’s relief, then, when Fareeha makes a suggestion that cannot be ignored.  “You know, the judges would have been obligated to write down their reason for dropping you, if it was so serious.  Why not check the ballots?”

A ballot could hardly lie.  It was paper proof of the judges’ opinions.  While those might not be the truth of the performance’s quality, it certainly existed as the truth to which the author subscribed.  As frustrating as those opinions could be, at times.

All eyes turn expectantly to Mr. Reyes.

Their coach sighs.  “You know I’m not supposed to give them out to you until next practice.”

As if catching the start of an unspoken sentence, Sombra leans forward, her hands braced against the edge of the table.  “But?”

There is a pause, where Reyes looks up at the ceiling imploringly.  He mutters something under his breath before leaning off to the side to fish something out of his leather messenger bag, currently hanging off the back of his chair.  When he leans back up, he is holding an envelope stuffed full of papers.  “Not a word to Morrison.  And don’t get any stains on these, you hear?”

Sombra grabs for them immediately, slapping Jamie’s arm out of the way.  His retaliation is a swift downward strike that pins her hand to the table.

“Cut that out!”  Reyes rolls his eyes when the two scramble to comply, and hands the envelope to Fareeha with a pointed glare in their direction.

Fareeha takes it from him with a stony face, her chin tilted upward in a subtle show of pride, as though it were some sort of honor to be entrusted with handing out the ballots.  Hanzo swears that if she wasn’t currently holding it with both hands, she would have saluted their speech coach.  Fortunately, she is too busy breaking the seal at the top to follow through with Hanzo’s suspicions.

Their food arrives not long after Fareeha has finished rearranging and passing out the ballots.  Lena’s pouting over not receiving any (which mostly everyone has no sympathy for, given that she made the active choice not to ride with the other debaters in Morrison’s van) is mostly forgotten in favor of digging in eagerly to her meal – some sort of over-sized chicken wrap.

Hanzo wrinkles his nose as subtly as possible at all of the greasy diner food his companions have ordered.  It seems that he and Angela are alone with their salads.  He was fortunate that they could at least wash lettuce correctly, although he sorely wishes there was less dressing.  The poor leaves were practically drowning in vinaigrette.  Trust a diner to corrupt something so inoffensive.  If he liked the heavy American breakfasts that were so favored in places like these, he might have done as Fareeha did and copied her order, time of day be damned.  There are very few ways to mess up toast, eggs and bacon.

It was all the same, he supposes.  He would have abandoned anything he ordered in favor of looking over his stack of ballots, anyway.

Hanzo thought he understood the concept of ballots perfectly, given that he also received them back when he was a debater.  But he never imagined that he would ever have to put up with how widely varied and nonsensical some of the critiques on the speech ballots are.  Angela once told him that she was given a lower score simply for wearing too short of a skirt for her judge’s liking.  Hanzo wonders where these sorts of judges were back when he had to force Jesse not to wear a tuxedo t-shirt and a cardigan to their Policy rounds.

As it were, he has currently seen two with contradictory advice on how they should distinguish characters.  One judge appears to think that they ought to be more obvious with their popping (or so he thinks.  It is difficult to tell when the judge has such atrocious penmanship that he cannot tell the difference between a ‘p’ and an ‘g’), while another commends them for the distinctiveness of each character.  He lets out a little huff, flipping the ballot back over with more force than is strictly necessary.

“I hate it when they do that.”  Jesse, for his part, appears to be in somewhat better sorts than he was a few minutes ago.  He isn’t smiling as he leans over Hanzo’s shoulder, but at least he doesn’t appear to be sulking any longer.  Hanzo could work with that.

“It’s frustrating,” he agrees.  Hanzo angles his head enough to look up at Jesse with a meaningful frown.  “You can hardly please them all.”

Jesse stubbornly takes a bite out of his greasy diner fry.

But he doesn’t look away, so Hanzo takes that as a sign to continue.  “Jesse.”  His tone is low, too quiet for the others to hear.  When he leans in, the conversation is a private one.  Just between the two of them, though the public setting might say otherwise.  “We might not have done well here, but this is hardly the end of the season.  There will be other tournaments.”

His partner ducks his head, practically murmuring into his chest.  If Hanzo could see his face, he guesses that Jesse would look halfway between irritated and ashamed.  At his performance, or his more recent behavior?  “We should have at least made it past Octos.”

Of course he agrees with Jesse – they had worked hard all summer on their piece, and it showed in the reception of their performance.  Neither was at fault for their loss in the Octo-Finals.  But he was biased, just as every competitor and every judge out there was.  Instead, he reminds Jesse, “There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“I know, I know,” he agrees with a heavy sigh, nodding his head morosely.  Jesse at least looks up when he asks, “Why’re you so okay with this?”

Hanzo presses his lips together.  In all honesty, he had not given that much thought.  Ordinarily he would be berating himself for any small mistake, obsessing over what he could have done to sway the judges more to their favor.  Why was that suddenly so different?

When he looks up at Jesse, he knows why.  “When I’m with you, I don’t care about doing well. That is enough for me.”

This catches his attention.  “Yeah?”

“I can’t promise we’ll do well.  I can’t make this better,” Hanzo admits, looking down at the ballots in his lap.  It feels shameful to admit, a far greater failure than the sting of loss he once feared.  “But I can promise to be there for you, at the very least.”  He tips his chin up enough to smile hesitantly at Jesse, taken aback by the look of pure adoration he is met with.

At last, Jesse smiles.  “Thanks.”  It is barely more than a whisper, but Hanzo hears it nonetheless.  He brushes his fingers over the back of his partner’s hand.

It becomes easy to drown out the animated debate currently unfolding around them, after that.  Instead they focus on looking through the remaining ballots.  With McCree back in good spirits, they manage to laugh at most of the negative comments, poking fun at misspellings or suggesting ridiculous ways they could meet some of the more outlandish requests that their judges would make – some, it seemed, simply disliked the piece, but refused to write it down in so many words.  Personal preference hardly works as an airtight reason for giving someone such a low score.

Hanzo has always had a particular dislike for judges that write little else but short, positive responses to their piece, only to rank them very low in the round.  When they make their way to the Octo-Final ballots, two of the three judges did the very same.  He rolls his eyes at the comments, _‘good characterization, excellent control of voice, mastery over performance space, perfect variety in tone.’_

Jesse must have been thinking the same thing.  “If you liked us so much, why’d you give us sixth place?”

“Maybe they were debaters,” Hanzo suggests, lips twitching with the effort to restrain his amusement, “and no one told them that a six is a bad thing.”

His partner snorts, perusing the third Octo-Final ballot in his hands.  “I think I’ll go with that one.”

“Ice for those bruises on our pride,” Hanzo agrees.  “It sounds better than ‘we got judge-fucked,’ anyway.”

Unexpectedly, Jesse does not attempt to defend his crude phrasing.  Instead he laughs, eyes trained on the slip of paper he holds in front of him.  “Aw, you gotta see this, Han!”

Curiosity piqued, Hanzo leans further into Jesse’s personal space, practically pressed against him.  “See what?”

Grinning, Jesse underlines one particular sentence in the midst of a thick paragraph.  Written in neat, distinctive cursive, it reads: _‘You two have such great chemistry!’_

Hanzo could not stop himself from laughing even if he wanted to.  “No.  Let me see that!”  Even when Jesse hands the ballot over to him, Hanzo can hardly believe what he just read.  He’s still grinning like an idiot when he flips it over, hardly able to concentrate on the rest of it for the absurdity of such a comment.

“She might have given us a three, but at least we have her seal of approval on _us_ , right?”  Jesse bumps his shoulder playfully against Hanzo’s.  The inertia rolls him away, but gravity pulls him back against his partner’s side, right where he belongs.

Across the table, Lena seems to have taken notice of their cheerful mood.  She leans forward with great interest.  “What’re you two havin’ a laugh about over there?”

As Jesse launches into an explanation of their results from Octos, Hanzo risks a studious glance around the table.  Mostly everyone is absorbed in their own little worlds.  Fareeha and Angela appear to be comparing their scores, while Sombra pores over the script for her Original Oratory speech.  Jamie seems to be multitasking, reading his ballots and listening to Jesse’s unnecessarily long-winded tale.  Mr. Reyes does not help its length, teasing his son at any opportunity he gets.

Hanzo bites his lower lip, considering the slip of paper in his hand.

Technically, the ballots need to be returned to the folder.  Mr. Morrison would be put out if one went missing.  He might call the tournament officials and harass them until it was found – Hanzo has seen him do this before, only to learn that the ballots were misplaced.  Then there was the warning Reyes gave them, a condition of being able to look at their results early…

And yet, knowing all this, he carefully folds the ballot up anyway, tucking it away in his wallet.

 

On hard days it is one of few things that can bring a smile to his face.  Years from now, even, Hanzo will pull it out, worn and slightly faded from continual use.  He does not need the words.  The ballot becomes a catalyst, its familiar shape in his hands enough to bring the memory of that unremarkable diner waltzing through his head, Hanzo’s hand clasped tight in his partner’s own.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo has barely gotten out the door of their first break round when he feels Jesse’s hand slide into his own.  While his partner is usually never far behind, the way Jesse hovers at his back is just a bit too close for their usual public boundaries.  Enough so that he stops in the middle of the hallway, craning his neck to the side so he can look over his shoulder, brow raised.

Jesse shrugs, his smile sheepish as he plants his ridiculous hat atop his head.  “You wanna take a walk?”

_No._   That is what Hanzo wants to say – they are far too overdressed to be walking around the host college’s campus in the middle of summer.  Hanzo spares a glance at the white blazer and dress slacks, standing out starkly against the sleek black dress shirt and cherry red tie.  His own suit is an inversion of his partner’s color palette, complete with a baby blue tie, at Jesse’s insistence.  He still does not understand the necessity of matching ensembles, but apparently this is ‘a Duo thing.’  Much as he likes to humor Jesse, he still makes it a point to tell him every team they have encountered who does not, in fact, follow the unspoken tradition.  Instead he is made to suffer the (frankly humiliating) commentary of their opponents who find it ‘adorable.’

But when he notices Jesse bouncing on his heels as though trying to work off a sudden influx of nerves, Hanzo’s resolve softens.  He nods his head once, sharply, and tries not to smile when Jesse beams at him.  At least it will be a suitable distraction from the wait for their results.

He lets himself be led out of the building, thankful that for once Jesse does not try and stop to chat with their competitors.

Regret comes quite immediately with the humid air bearing down on them.  Hanzo supposes that he should be more acclimated to it than anyone else, given that he spent the majority of his life in Hanamura’s stifling tropical climate.  Perhaps he has been in America far too long, to find this heat so daunting.

Despite the heat, Jesse does not attempt to extricate his hand from their mutual grip on one another, so Hanzo does not move to, either.

He sneaks a glance up at Jesse, who seems perfectly content despite the too-many layers of stiff clothing.  The hat must be keeping the worst of the sun off of him, Hanzo thinks, its wide brim leaving Jesse’s shoulders in shade.

A stroke of inspiration comes to him.

With a wicked curl to one side of his mouth, Hanzo reaches up with his free hand and snatches the hat from his partner’s head.

Jesse squawks, glaring down at him indignantly.  Though that may just be the sun in his eyes.  “What the hell, babe?”

Hanzo smirks triumphantly.  “ _You_ dragged me out here.  I was hot.  It only seems fair,” he explains, using the hat to fan himself with quick flicks of his wrist.  He tilts his head back and sighs as blessedly cool air gusts across his face.

“You could’a just _asked_ ,” Jesse grouses, pouting now.  It is playful, so Hanzo does not feel nearly so guilty about stealing his partner’s protection from the sun for his own benefit.

Still, there is little harm in playing along.  What sort of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t indulge his partner from time to time?  “Aw, you poor thing.”  He coos, stretching his arm out so that he can fan them both with Jesse’ hat.  “Is that better?”

“Much.”  Jesse sighs contentedly, but Hanzo does not miss the wicked gleam in his eyes.  He has all of five seconds to wonder what his partner is up to before Jesse leans down, a whisper against the shell of his ear sending shivers down Hanzo’s spine.  “You’ll have to make it up to me, though.”  Just as he is about to comment wryly on the suggestive tone, a nibble at his earlobe turns the repartee into a mortifying squeal.

Jesse sounds much too pleased with himself, tossing his head back with the force of his laugh.  He does not even look remotely guilty when Hanzo smacks him square in the chest with his beloved hat and calls him an asshole.

He lets Hanzo keep the hat, though.  It is a blissful distraction from the temperature-borne discomfort as they continue on their walk, now far away from the central buildings of the college campus, wandering some path secluded in a swath of deciduous trees.

“You don’t really mean that, though,” Jesse says once his laughter has died down, swinging their hands playfully.  Hanzo had almost forgotten they were holding them at all.  He glances between them, smiling when he sees how smudged the _161_ written on the back of Jesse’s hand has gotten.

McCree and Shimada.

By the end of these tournaments, their code always ends up illegible, smeared by Hanzo’s questing fingers, always seeking the familiar comfort of his partner’s grasp.

Minutely, Hanzo shakes his head.  “No.”  The admission comes with an easy smile, like many things since letting Jesse into his life.

There is further mischief in that look, Hanzo knows.  But he never is certain of when he should be wary.  “Used to think you did, truth be told.”

Hanzo pauses, staring at the pavement with a sudden frown.

Their linked hands drag Jesse backward, turning to look at him.  Wondering, most likely, what has been the cause of the unexpected holdup.  “Hanzo?”

“Have I ever called you that?”  He hates how small his voice is when he asks it.  But this is something he needs to know.  For all his recollection, he cannot recall a single time he ever said such a thing to McCree and meant it.  He manages to forget the heat, so great is his worry.

When he risks a glance up, Jesse shakes his head vehemently.  “No,” he is quick to reassure Hanzo.  “I just meant…well, you didn’t say it in so many words.  But I was pretty sure you hated my guts for a while there.”

So he means when they first met.  Hanzo winces at the memory.  He opens his mouth to apologize, but is interrupted before he can even begin.

“Don’t start in on that,” Jesse chastises.  He tugs with the hand still curled protectively around Hanzo’s, pulling him ever closer.  They are just shy of their chests bumping when Jesse stops.  “We already went through the apology gauntlet, remember?”

Hanzo manages a faint smile.  “Three years ago.”  His remark brings a sudden realization to the forefront of his mind, cutting through the momentary lapse into regret.  “Strange, to think we’ve come so far.  It all comes back to here, doesn’t it?”

“Guess so.  I always thought your obsession with Nationals was odd,” Jesse admits with a breathy chuckle, head tilted back to watch the light filtering through the canopy.  “I thought a lot of things.  But I never thought I’d end up with you.”

Hanzo hums thoughtfully.  “When we first met, I wanted to dislike you.  You were ridiculous.  I thought a partner would hold me back.”

“Bet you’re real glad you were wrong now.”

His shoulders shake with mirth.  “Very much so.”

“We’ve come a long way, huh?”  Jesse is looking at him, now.  There is no gleam in his eyes, just the shadows cast by merciful, twining branches laden with verdant leaves.

Hanzo nods in agreement.  There is no reason to be amused, now.  He does not know why, but he feels it when he looks at the junior.  “Yes, we have.”

When Jesse sighs, the sound is far heavier than it has any right to be.  “And to think it’ll all be over, soon.”

And that is when Hanzo realizes where this sudden change in behavior – the walk, even – stems from.

Hanzo swallows with some difficulty.  “The year did pass quickly.”  He squeezes the hand still wrapped around his own, reassuring with his presence.

Truth be told, he does not enjoy thinking much about the future, either.  Next year will be the first since the start of their partnership that Hanzo will not be able to see Jesse at least once a week.

Jesse ducks his head when he admits, in a voice far too small for his personality, “I’m gonna miss you.”

He looks up at his partner, taking in the way the muted light turns Jesse’s eyes a soft copper brown.  “Morrison will be thrilled to have another judge volunteering on away trips.”  Though he may not be eligible to compete any longer, there are other ways he can see his partner.  _I’ll be back._

This is all he can offer – a reassuring smile, and a promise.

Jesse smiles at him.  Perhaps he trusts Hanzo not to break it.  “Until then, we’ve got the whole summer, right?”

Like it was always there, Hanzo smiles back with familiar ease.  “Right.”

It will be hard to leave it all behind, he knows.  But there is truth in what he said, and that knowledge alone eases the sudden ache in his chest.

This is just another beginning.  To what, Hanzo cannot say.

He clings to Hanzo as they stroll languidly through the campus grounds, back to where their team awaits.  But then, Hanzo is guilty of the same.

As they draw ever closer to the end of their impromptu stroll, Jesse squeezes his hand a bit too tight.  His partner’s grip is slick with sweat, their proximity all too punishing under the midday sun, positively sweltering in their almost-matching three-piece suits.  Hanzo finds that he does not mind nearly as much as he probably should.

It feels right.


End file.
